


Smoke on the Horizon

by Elfbert



Category: Rawhide (TV)
Genre: 19th century medical practices, Angst, Bad at communicating, Cowboys, Established Relationship, Gay Cowboys, Healing, M/M, Past Abuse, Violence, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-02 13:30:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12727488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: There was a shout in the distance, urgent and breathless.“Mister Wishbone! Mister Wishbone, Sir!”Rowdy jumped up.Mushy was running toward them, stumbling over the long grass.“Mister Wishbone, Mister Rowdy, you gotta come, they’re killin’ each other,” he panted out, as he got close enough, pointing.A few more people were stirring at the noise and commotion. “Who?” Wishbone began, but Rowdy had a feeling he knew.Pushing beeves north is a hard job, done by hard men.Rustlers, conmen, bandits - Rowdy Yates and Gil Favor have dealt with them all.Feelings, emotions and their relationship prove to be more difficult to figure out. But when new hands dredge up old memories, they have to try.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to [Stephantom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephantom/pseuds/stephantom) for amazing beta reading.

No cattle drive was easy.

If it were, as his Ma used to say, everyone would be doing it.

But, Rowdy reflected, some were just unrelentingly difficult, in every conceivable way.

They were getting through the miles, at least. But they were short handed, the weather couldn’t decide if it wanted to be cold and clear or soaking wet. It didn’t settle in the middle though, oh no, just wildly oscillated between the two.

That meant storms, and that meant restless cattle. Which, in turn, meant everyone was tired and irritable.

None more so than Gil Favor, Trail Boss.

 

Rowdy sighed as he saw Gil galloping toward him, dust filling the air behind him.

“Why’re you up here? Drag’s fallin’ off, flank ain’t tight enough, an’ we need least another three miles ‘fore we bed ‘em down.”

Rowdy didn’t even bother answering. This had been how it was for days now. Orders, shouting, scowling. No let-up.

He headed toward flank, watching as Gil headed for drag. Now he’d turned he could see that beeves were straggling back, and he hoped none had made their escape, or he knew he’d be in for another lecture.

He could just hear it.

‘Them beeves were strung out from here to back to San Antone! What was you doing?’

Flank were quickly sorted, and Rowdy set Joe to keep a closer eye on the newer hands.

He glanced back. Gil was still at drag. The two men there were green. Well, one of them was only a boy. Sullivan had said he was sixteen, but Rowdy knew Gil didn’t believe it.

Still, the kid had seemed keen, and although he was inexperienced, there was nothing else wrong with him - he tried hard.

The other man, Baxter, was older, and said he’d pushed cattle before. He seemed decent - had proven popular enough around camp, fitting in well. He didn’t seem like the best cowhand, but again, he did as he was told. For a dollar a day you couldn’t ask much more than that.

 

Gil left the men and began riding after the loose cattle, and Rowdy wondered if he should go and help. He decided against it, though. Sullivan was still riding drag, and seemed to be doing a decent job. Baxter was hazing in cattle from one side, Gil was off in the scrub pushing them back from the other.

He kept an eye on them, though, and once the beeves were back in order he saw Gil speaking to the two men again, before riding away. He could only guess they’d suffered Gil’s temper too.

Rowdy fell in beside him as he rode back to point.

“Keep an eye on them two at the back,” Gil said, automatically moving off the line they were riding to push some beeves back toward the body of the herd.

“Sure th…”

Gil cut him off as he noticed the opposite side of the herd now looking ragged. “Quince!” he yelled. “Keep ‘em tight!”

“Boss…” Rowdy began.

“For Chrissakes,” Gil muttered, shaking his head as he watched Quince pushing the beeves back in.

Rowdy decided he’d be better off someplace else, and turned away, determined to keep his head down for the rest of the day.

 

He knew how it was for Gil - well, he didn’t exactly know, but he had a decent idea. He’d been left in charge of the herd before, sometimes for days at a time. And yeah, it wasn’t easy. He’d felt the pressure. He hoped he’d done a good job.

Occasionally Gil had told him he had.

But he didn’t ever quite feel the same pressure Gil seemed to with regard to the owners, the ranchers, the men.

It was a risky, business, cattle. Prices could drop like a rock. Animals could fall ill - whole herds be struck down. He knew all these things, but they’d never been his problem, not directly.

He figured if people wanted certainty in life they should go to a city and get a job like he’d heard - you went for so many hours a day, and someone paid you. Then you went home.

Out here that didn’t happen. You worked hard for everything you needed. Food, shelter, whatever. You made your place, you didn’t slot into a place someone had made for you.

 

He was glad when Gil stayed at point for a while, and the pace of the herd picked up some. Rowdy rode up and down, encouraging and ordering and trying to keep the herd moving smoothly.

It wasn’t just him who needed a break from Gil’s mood.

Then a galloping rider caught his attention, and he realised it was Gil, once again heading for drag.

This time he followed.

Before he arrived back at drag he could see the two riders close together, and wasn’t surprised there were cows straggling off either side of the back of the herd.

Gil was shouting at them by the time he got within earshot.

Then he was spotted.

“Rowdy, Baxter’s going on flank. Move everyone else back. Stick Donahue on drag here.”

“But…” Rowdy looked from a dejected Sullivan to Baxter, who looked blankly back at him. Face impassive, uncaring.

“Jus’ do it!” Gil snapped, and once again began rounding up the loose cattle.

Rowdy helped, quickly neatening everything back up, years of experience making it easy to push the slower animals into shape.

“Rowdy,” Gil called him over. As he approached Gil lowered his voice.“Don’t put Baxter back on drag. He ain’t no good there.”

“Ain’t no…well how’s be gonna be good anywhere if he ain’t no good on drag?” he protested.

“Just do as I say, for once,” Gil ground out, and rode off, pushing through the steers to get to the other side of the herd, growling at them to move out of his way.

Rowdy shook his head silently. Gil’s mood was mighty tiring. They were short handed enough, without men deciding they couldn’t stand to be shouted at any more and leaving.

 

That evening the weather was fairly clear, and the stars were bright. The moon was a tiny sliver, hanging like the most delicate curl in the sky.

He put off going into camp for a while, just enjoying the quiet of the herd as they settled and grazed, with none of the noise and dust of the day.

As soon as he got into camp, Gil called him over. He braced himself.

“Who’s on nighthawk?” The question was abrupt. Gil barely even looked up from whatever he was writing.

“Oh, err, Joe and Quince first, then Baxter and Sullivan.”

Gil shook his head. “Mix ‘em up. Put…Joe with Sullivan. I don’t want two new hands out there together.”

“But…” Rowdy rubbed a hand over his stomach. “Well, Joe an’ Quince sure ain’t gonna like that, Boss.”

“They don’t have to,” Gil answered, carrying on with his trail log.

Rowdy sighed. Of course he was the one who’d have to give the bad news.

He wandered over to where Joe and Jim were lounging on two boxes by the chuck wagon, getting their dinner in before they had to go back to work.

“Hey. Boss said you have to go out with Sullivan, Joe,” Rowdy said, trying to sound like he was a bit apologetic, to make it clear it wasn’t his idea. “Jim, you get Baxter.”

“What?” Quince’s face screwed up into a look of disgust. “We do nightwatch together.” He pointed between himself and Joe.

“I know, I know,” Rowdy sighed. “All I’m doing is passing on what the Boss told me. You got a problem, see him.”

He made his escape - he didn’t need to have a whole debate about how unreasonable Gil was being, because he was apt to start agreeing, and he didn’t really want to be seen to do that. He also did want some dinner.

 

As he stood by the chuck wagon, plate of stew balanced in his hand Wishbone sidled close.

“What’s eatin’ him,” Wishbone asked in a low voice, gesturing to where Gil was sitting near the edge of the camp, one knee drawn up to his chest. He was staring out into the darkness with only a mug of coffee for company.

Rowdy shrugged. “Dunno. Same as the rest of us, I s’pose, only more so.”

Wishbone huffed out a sigh. “Ain’t doing no good. Why don’t you go an’ see if you can cheer him up. Usually manage it.”

Rowdy gave a half-smile, not feeling like he was going to be lucky tonight.

“Can’t make it no worse, anyhow,” Wishbone added. “Take him this.” He produced a small paper bag of boiled sweets.

Rowdy grinned, removing a sweet for himself before heading toward their trail boss.

“Wish says d’you want a peppermint?” Rowdy shoved the bag in front of Gil.

Gil jumped, clearly having been deep in thought. He glanced at the bag, then shook his head. 

“No. Thanks.”

Rowdy frowned. Gil had a sweet tooth - usually he’d have taken a handful and shoved the rest in his pocket. Wishbone wasn’t known for his generosity when it came to candy.

He sat on the next box over, out of view of most of the camp, hoping a bit of privacy would help get to the bottom of whatever was bothering Gil.

“So,” he started.

Gil lit up a cheroot. The flare of the match almost blinding in the gloom.

“What’s up?” He asked, deciding that there was no point in talking around the issue. Gil never fell for it anyway.

“You know. We ain’t got ‘nough men, an’ we’re coming up on a rough patch.” The words came out around the cheroot, half mumbled as Gil crushed the dead match into the top of the crate.

Rowdy nodded. “We’ve managed it before though. It don’t usually…”

He noticed as Gil flicked a look at him.

“What?” Gil demanded.

He shrugged. “Don’t usually make you…” He reached out, stroking his finger down the edge of Gil’s chaps, not knowing how to word it. 

‘Doesn’t usually make you so mean.’ That’s what he wanted to say. But he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to be so blunt.

He’d never known someone who could make words hurt like Gil did. He sometimes wondered where that skill had come from. Usually he decided he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to copy it, that was for sure.

His finger moved from the worn leather to the back of Gil’s boot, spinning the rowel on his spur. Gil let him do things like this. Explore. When they’d first started…there wasn’t a word for their relationship, he didn’t think. Not one he knew, anyway.

When it had started he’d been nervous, and one thing Gil was good at was letting him take his time. Explore. Figure things out.

He still did it - explored Gil’s body. Explored them - the space they occupied in the world. It didn’t seem to bother Gil. Rowdy got self conscious. Gil just seemed accepting.

Only with him though. No one else was allowed to crowd him like Rowdy did. And if they tried he could easily read the change in Gil’s body language. A tensing of muscles, a hardening of his expression.

He’d missed Gil today, even though it had been his choice to avoid the man.

He felt a bit bad about it now. But he hated the conflict that could rise between them. It seemed easier to avoid it.

A plume of smoke escaped Gil’s lips, and Rowdy watched as it disappeared into the air. Maybe that’s all they had. Something that looked solid at first. But it would fade to nothing.

Two fingers came to rest on his, stilling the movement. The rowel slowed and stopped.

“Maybe let everyone go into Borrel, when we get close,” Gil said, so softly Rowdy almost missed it.

“Yeah?” He was surprised. He didn’t think Gil would go easy on them at the moment.

A night in the town meant at least a day lost.

“Yeah. Maybe everyone needs a break. Beef needs to fatten a bit. Don’t tell no one yet, we’ll check on the grazing first.”

He nodded. Then turned his hand over, gripping gently on Gil’s fingers. Rubbing his thumb over the callouses from holding reins and ropes every day. Small knots of scar tissue that told of past injuries. Easy to come by in their jobs.

He wondered why Gil’s mood had improved. 

“Keep an eye on Sullivan,” Gil said next. Voice still low. No one else was near them, but Rowdy knew how sound travelled.

He glanced over to the camp. He’d thought Baxter seemed more of a problem. “Why? Ain’t he working?”

“He’s just a kid. Shouldn’t even be out here. Should be home with his folks.”

He shrugged, then squinted out into the darkness of the prairie.

“You was his age, when you started out - younger, even.”

He often wondered if Gil felt as if he was above the rest of them. He seemed to. As if he wasn’t human, almost.

If he’d been tough enough to survive, why wouldn’t the kid.

“Just ‘cause I did it didn’t make it right.”

Rowdy pondered that. He supposed his experience proved it more than many. Joining the army, full of pride and anger. Then spending the time he should have been growing into a man rotting in a prison camp for the duration of the war.

“Yeah,” he answered, eventually.

Maybe Gil was right.

Town sounded good anyway - he was pretty sure he’d even be able to persuade Gil to come in, get a drink, relax a bit. He hoped the grazing was good enough to give them all a rest. Reset the mood of the drive.

The beeves would survive if it didn’t happen - they weren’t in as good condition as when they’d been picked up, but they weren’t yet scrawny, either.

He just wasn’t sure everyone else would. Tempers frayed quickly in camp. It didn’t take much. And then, as always, Gil would have to step in. He was always ready to. Always alert, even when it seemed like he wasn’t.

Rowdy looked down at their linked hands.

“You know, everyone’s trying. I know…it’s rough going. But if you’re too hard on ‘em they’ll leave,” he said quietly, hesitantly. “Can’t manage with fewer than we’ve got, not really.”

“I know.” Gil answered, flatly. 

Somehow Rowdy knew everything would be all right - it always was.

Gil Favor had something about him that made you believe that. Sometimes, Rowdy thought, more than Gil seemed to believe it himself.

They’d never come across a problem yet they hadn’t been able to work around. He couldn’t imagine they ever would. The two of them, the crew. They’d manage.

 

The night, thankfully, passed peacefully, and everyone - apart from those on nighthawk - seemed a little brighter in the morning. The weather had seemingly decided to settle on a greyness, a slight damp and chill in the air. But anything was better than the thunderstorms.

***

Rowdy awoke to Wishbone’s noise and rolled over. Gil’s bedroll was next to him, a heap of blankets, but the saddle was gone. He sighed. He’d have been up in the night, too, making sure the night watch switched over. He always was.

Rowdy wished he would just relax, sometimes. He knew that was hard, but the man should trust his drovers more and worry less. Wasn’t as if worrying helped, anyway.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and pushed himself to his feet, tightening his belt up and scratching his face, wondering if he should shave.

“Boss about?” he asked Wishbone, as he reached for a cup.

“Went out, ‘bout an hour ago,” Wishbone answered, poking at something in a pot over the fire.

“Say where?” Rowdy sipped the coffee.

Wishbone shook his head.

He finished his coffee and headed for the remuda. Jesus was up already, and greeted him with a smile, fetching his horse and helping him saddle it.

“Señor Favor headed north, Señor Rowdy,” Jesus helpfully supplied. 

“Thanks Jesus,” Rowdy swung up into the saddle, wriggling slightly to get his pants and chaps comfortable, then letting the horse walk on.

He shivered in the cold, but he knew once the sun rose they’d be in for another good day. The cloud would probably burn off. It didn’t look to stick, he thought.

He found Gil at the top of the next rise they would come to. He was sitting, hunched into his coat, one leg hooked up on the horn of his saddle, smoking.

“How’s it look?” Rowdy asked, coming to a stop.

Gil gave a shrug, and Rowdy took a moment to look at him more closely. Shadows under his eyes, wrinkles where he frowned.

“Ain’t too bad. Thought it might be wetter’n it is. Should make Borrel by…tomorrow, noon camp, if we don’t come up on anything.”

Rowdy nodded, and allowed himself to smile. “It’s going okay, ain’t it?” he asked.

He watched the stream of smoke that slid smoothly from Gil’s lips. “Is right now. Maybe see if we can get some hands in town. Never know, someone might join up.”

“You worried about getting up in the hills?”

Gil raised his eyebrows, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Got more worries ’n that. But yeah. More men’d make the going easier.”

The dog end was mashed out on Gil’s chaps, fire crushed out, paper and tobacco shredded. 

Rowdy waited, hoping Gil might elaborate.

“Wanna tell me?” He finally asked, picking at a loose thread on his coat, as Gil swung his leg back down into his stirrup, and arched his back to stretch.

“No,” Gil finally said, turning his horse around and heading back to camp.

Rowdy shook his head, wondering what was going on, and, once again, feeling a little left out. He was supposed to be second in command.

More than that, he was supposed to be Gil’s friend.

 

The drive that day was steady, but there were no bad bogs, although the horses and cattle managed to churn up the ground fairly well.

Rowdy watched as Gil rode up and down, trying to help out where he could.

Pete had been put on point, a clear indication that Gil thought more help would be needed elsewhere. Men were one thing, experienced men were another, and this sort of going needed that experience.

Gil had told Rowdy to work loose too, wherever cattle floundered or held up the rest of the drive there needed to be someone ready to rope them out and push them on.

The last thing they needed was cattle backing up into the mud, standing and sinking.

As the day wore on Gil met up with him on the flank - mud spattered up his chaps and on his shirt. 

“Beeves at the back are tiring, having to get through all this,” Gil said, gestured to the cut-up ground. “Get more men back here. Jus’ leave enough to keep the front from straying - they can spread out, it’ll help keep the dirt firm.”

Rowdy nodded and rode off to rearrange the drovers, pulling men back to push the rear of the herd on.

The pace increased a little, and the land began to slowly rise up out of the valley they’d been in all day, the ground firming up with every step.

Rowdy smiled to himself. Everyone had worked well, and they’d made good time in difficult conditions. He hoped it meant Gil would begin to trust the new drovers a little more. Stop riding everyone so hard. Stop worrying so much.

He kicked his horse on, glad for once there was no dust - although everyone was splattered with mud, instead. He hoped there’d be a decent enough water hole or river to get some washing done if they stopped over for a day.

Between the sun, the rain and the mud he could barely stand the smell of himself.

Gil appeared near him again. “Hey, front of the herd’s getting hard t’hold, get men back up there now,” he shouted.

Rowdy nodded, and turned back to send men further forward again.

Shortly after, once the mud was behind them and all the beeves were on firm ground, Gil galloped up to him, his horse skidding to a stop and dancing a little, shaking it’s head.

“I told you not to put Baxter on drag,” Gil said, coldly.

“You…you said to pull men back!” Rowdy protested.

“Not him. He don’t ride drag, right?”

“What’d you think I was gonna do? Leave him on swing an’ bring Quince back?” he asked, incredulous.

“Yeah,” Gil answered, voice hard, jaw set. “I thought you was gonna listen for once. I was wrong.”

Gil was gone again before Rowdy got a chance to answer, so he just shook his head.

He hadn’t exactly expected praise, but the day had gone well. Sometimes he felt like he could never do anything right. If you were leaving the front short-handed, you didn’t put an inexperienced man there. And you didn’t put someone like Quince on extra drag duties.

Rowdy clenched his fists around his reins.

 

Camp was quiet that evening, everyone tired from the hard day.

Rowdy sat with Quince and Joe and a few others. A card game had sprung up. He wasn’t playing, but was idly watching. Baxter was there, so Rowdy was mainly watching him. Trying to work out why Gil had taken against the man.

He seemed okay. Wasn’t too loud, or too quiet. Seemed to get along with people well enough. Maybe had even taken Sullivan under his wing a bit. Rowdy had seen them chatting a few times, away from the others. Only natural for the new hands to stick together.

Maybe that was it, Rowdy thought - maybe the kid was relying on the older man to do the work too much, and that was why Gil had split them up. But the kid hadn’t seemed like the sort to shirk any hard work, either.

He idly chewed on the side of his thumb, looking around at the rest of the crew.

Mushy was busy chopping something up. Wishbone was tending the cooking.

Gil was sitting off on his own again, by the supply wagon, alone but always watching.

Rowdy didn’t feel like joining him tonight. He wasn’t stupid - he’d been pushed away enough recently, he got the message.

Gil could work it out for himself.

They were usually practically inseparable these days. He didn’t know if anyone had guessed that they were more than friends. They certainly didn’t try to flaunt that to anyone, and he didn’t want anybody to think he was ramrod because of his relationship with Gil, rather than on his own merit. But they were a pair, in charge of the drive, united.

People expected them to be together.

 

When it was time to sleep he shook out his bedroll on the opposite side of the camp from Gil.

Then lay awake.

They’d always slept close by each other - even before. It had just seemed natural. The first night he’d been in camp, unsure where to shake out his bedroll, Gil had gestured to the ground beside himself, as if it was obvious. So that had been Rowdy’s spot ever since.

He wondered if people would notice. He wondered if Gil would notice.

He wondered if Gil would care.


	2. Chapter 2

His first instinct when he woke was to glance over to where Gil had been sleeping the night before. But of course the spot was empty, bedroll already cleared away. He wondered if he should go out, as he usually did, but decided against it.

Gil could come to him, if he wanted to talk.

He got up, stretching out stiff muscles, and discovered that Wishbone did want to talk, even if he didn’t want to hear it.

“So?” Wishbone asked, as everyone else was busy eating.

“So what, Wish?” Rowdy shoved his dirty plate onto the stack.

“What’s eating at the boss? He ain’t been in for his breakfast. Barely ate his dinner last night. He sick?”

Rowdy felt his eyes open a little wider. “No, don’t think so,” he answered, unsure.

“Well maybe you better find out,” Wishbone advised.

“I’ll try,” he sighed. Why hadn’t he thought Gil might be sick? “He said maybe we’d rest up soon anyhow,” he offered, hoping it would mollify Wishbone some.

It didn’t, and Wishbone frowned. “Maybe he is sick, then.”

Rowdy rubbed his forehead. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it. Gil acting even grumpier than usual, a suggestion of taking a rest. He knew Gil didn’t deal with being sick or injured well. It seemed like it went against his nature. Like somehow his body had betrayed him by letting him down. He hated resting, hated anything that would stop him doing his job.

Rowdy headed to the remuda.

 

Gil was riding back toward him once he got out past the herd, horse doing a steady canter. He looked easy enough in the saddle, Rowdy thought.

“What’s up?” Gil asked, before he’d stopped.

“Was going to ask you,” Rowdy said, carefully looking Gil over. “Wish said maybe you was sick.”

Gil gave him a look that made him feel uncomfortable. Sort of calculating, judging.

“I ain’t.”

“Oh. Good.” Rowdy’s horse shifted under him, sidestepping, as if aware of the slight tension in the air.

“Should be able to stop at noon camp, figure lay over a day. Let everyone get in town, then sober up ‘fore they’re back in the saddle.”

Rowdy nodded. “You gonna come to town?” He watched Gil’s expression closely.

“Yeah. Guess so.” Gil looked at him, and there was something in his expression Rowdy couldn’t quite read. Maybe something akin to worry. “Buy you a drink?”

He hesitated. Then figured he should take whatever apology he could get. Anything to stop this tension.

“Sure,” he nodded.

“And Rowdy,” Gil called, as he began to turn away. “You di’n’t deserve what I said. You were doing fine.”

He just nodded, and felt even more confused about what was going on. Gil’s ever changing moods were leaving him feeling off balance, vulnerable.

He didn’t like feeling like he didn’t know what was going on with the herd, or the men, or Gil.

 

Once noon camp had been set up the men greeted the news that they were going to get a night in town with the expected whoops and yells, then there was a scramble to wash and smarten themselves up.

Rowdy was pleased to see Gil smiling as the men celebrated. It felt like it had been far too long.

He supposed it must be a nice feeling, making people happy that way. Watching as they seemed to forget every angry word, because they’d been given the chance to drink away their problems for a few hours.

Wondered what it said about them - and him - that it felt like such a reward.

“Come on,” he nudged Gil on the arm. “You got a drink to buy me.”

They shared a dish of warm water, washing the grit and sweat from their necks, stripping to the waist and wiping a wet rag over their bodies. It never got rid of the smell of the horses and beeves, but it was something.

Finally most people were ready, and Gil had handed over cash to those who needed it, noting each amount in his trail log with care.

Then as a group rode toward the town, just a few of the crew staying behind to look after the herd.

Gil had promised anyone who wasn’t interested in a night in the saloon that they could go to town the next day, if they wanted to. There had been a few volunteers. Some of the older hands, who either didn’t drink, or preferred to keep their money in their pockets, no longer saw the draw of the saloon. Wishbone had been happy to remain and keep an eye on things.

 

The saloon was small, but had beer and whiskey, so everyone was happy enough. Most of the men stood by the bar at first, but Gil bought a bottle and gestured to a small table.

Rowdy sat, stretching out his legs, and accepted a full glass.

They both drank, and Rowdy slouched down in his seat a little further, feeling relaxed for the first time in a while.

He chatted about anything and everything, watching Gil, who was obviously watching the crew. He didn’t mind - he knew Gil always felt responsible for any problems the drovers caused in towns.

Cowhands didn’t need any more notoriety, and the Gil Favor outfit didn’t need to make a name for itself by breaking up saloons. Men came and went. Gil survived on his reputation alone.

But tonight the men were loud, and full of good cheer. As evening approached a few more saloon girls arrived, to cheers and whoops.

Rowdy was in the middle of telling Gil all about when he was a kid, and had been caught stealing apples from a neighbour’s tree, when he became aware that all of Gil’s attention was now elsewhere. A coldness to his gaze, a set to his jaw. Like a wolf on the hunt, ready, waiting.

“Anyway,” he said, glancing out into the room, trying to see what Gil had spotted. “Then along come a unicorn, wings and everything, an’ ate the pie and the tin she cooked it in.”

“Mmm,” Gil made a vague noise of agreement, which told Rowdy he hadn’t listened to a word of the story, particularly the ridiculous ending Rowdy had just invented.

“What’s…?”

Rowdy was cut off by Gil standing abruptly, his chair bucking backward. He walked straight into the throng of their men, most of whom moved aside.

Rowdy stood, too, more slowly, ready for trouble. But Gil had stopped, hand gripping tightly on Baxter’s arm, face right in Baxter’s, every line of his body suggesting aggression. Fingers digging into flesh, his other hand in a fist at his side.

The saloon girl who had been with Baxter shrunk away, lost from sight in a moment, not a backward glance. Rowdy could see Gil was saying something, but couldn’t hear the words.

Not many people stood up to Gil Favor for long, especially if they valued their job. There were a tense few seconds, where those drovers still sober enough to notice backed away a little. Then Baxter wrenched his arm free and walked out of the saloon.

Rowdy watched as Gil’s shoulders dropped slightly, then he rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. It seemed like he said a few words to some of the closest men, and headed back to Rowdy, gaze focussed on the doors of the saloon, through which Baxter had departed.

“Trouble?” Rowdy asked, leaning forward.

Gil shrugged as he dropped heavily back into his chair.

“Seems like he’s causing you a few headaches,” Rowdy pushed, as he took his own seat again.

“He…there’s just something about him,” Gil answered, waving a hand as if to dismiss the subject. “Sent him back to take over nightwatch.”

“He didn’t look too happy.”

Gil shrugged again, and took another drink - they’d got through most of the bottle, Rowdy realised.

He rarely had to buy his own drinks these days - meant more of his pay ended up in his pocket at the end of the drive. Also, he hoped, meant Gil drank alone a bit less.

 

Once the bottle was empty, Gil stood and stretched. “Going back. You coming?”

Rowdy glanced over to their crew. A few of them still looked just about sober enough to ride.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Figure they’ll get back okay?”

Gil glanced over. “Somehow, they always seem to. Wish can round up any strays when he comes in for supplies tomorrow.”

 

The night was clear, and Rowdy smiled up at the stars, sitting easy in his saddle. He felt pleasantly relaxed. The alcohol had given him a sort of warm, slightly boneless feel.

“Hey,” he smiled across at Gil. “Wanna… stop someplace? You know…” He was unsure if Gil would want to - but these were the moments they took. Away from the herd and the crew, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues.

He swayed slightly in his saddle and Gil reached out and held his arm until he was steady again. Touch gentle, nothing like the grip on Baxter, earlier.

“Think you need to get back to camp, ‘fore you fall out the saddle.” Gil’s voice was gentle. Soothing.

“You’d catch me,” Rowdy grinned.

Gil gave a huff of amusement. “Yeah, I probably would,” he said softly, so Rowdy could barely hear.

“So,” Rowdy squeezed his eyes shut as the stars up in the heavens seemed to tilt over to one side. He’d never been on a ship, but he guessed it would feel a bit like he was feeling now.

“So?” Gil repeated.

“We could stop, y’know…have some…fun.”

“You’re too soaked,” Gil answered.

“Coulda got a room,” Rowdy grinned.

That was the best thing. Sometimes they’d stay over in a town. They’d lock the door, and the world was theirs. 

“Jus’ so you could sleep comfy?” Gil asked, sounding amused.

Rowdy felt his smile grow. At least Gil was in a better mood. And there had been a few times where he’d had a few to drink, intending to enjoy a night with Gil, and woken the next morning, tucked up, wrapped in strong arms, having slept like the dead.

“So you don’t want to…” Rowdy pushed, grinning.

“No.” Gil answered, flatly.

Rowdy frowned. But sometimes Gil was like this. Rowdy didn’t fully understand it - he never gave up the chance for them to spend time together. Especially if that time might lead to sex. But even if it didn’t, it felt precious, their time alone.

They rode on, pace slow, and Rowdy couldn’t help but feel everything was somehow linked - Gil’s bad mood, him not wanting to spend time alone, and the problems with the crew.

“Why don’t you like Baxter?” he asked.

Gil didn’t answer, and their horses plodded on.

“You ever…think you can trust someone? An’ it turned out you can’t?” Gil said suddenly, almost making Rowdy jump.

Rowdy frowned. “Sure. Ain’t everyone?” Then he felt like he should say more, to prove he did understand. “My Pa, for one.”

There was an even longer pause. “Yeah. Well. I don’t trust Baxter.”

He didn’t feel like he understood any more than he had already. But he also felt like he shouldn’t push further. Sometimes you didn’t know why you didn’t like someone. It was just a feel, in your gut.

He trusted Gil’s gut.

 

Some of the men made it back to the camp that night - worse for wear, slumped in their saddles, but happy. Others would be sleeping it off in town somewhere - cowhands weren’t usually picky about where they slept.

Rowdy unfurled his bedroll next to Gil’s again. The camp was quiet - plenty of drunken snoring, but no one staying up to play cards or talk.

Rowdy glanced around, and, satisfied no one was aware of them, slid his hand under the blankets to find Gil’s, a touch of warmth in the gloom. Trying to make up for what he’d missed out on earlier.

Fingers wrapped around his own, and squeezed. Linked together for a moment.

He smiled, happy, and retracted his hand again, back into the warmth of his own bedroll.

 

Once in the night he had to get up, stumbling a short distance from the camp to have a pee. Everything was peaceful, and he looked forward to the next day, with little work to do he hoped to get down to the river and have a swim, or at least a good wash.

 

Everyone slept in late the next morning. Rowdy was awake, sprawled on his front, but not inclined to get up. He wondered if Wishbone or Mushy would bring him a coffee, if he asked nicely. Or perhaps even Gil. He shoved himself up on his elbows, glancing around. Gil wasn’t around, but Mushy would definitely bring him coffee. Hopefully it would help the pounding in his head.

“Say, Wish…” he began.

Then there was a shout in the distance, urgent and breathless.

“Mister Wishbone! Mister Wishbone, Sir!”

Rowdy jumped up. Mushy was running toward them, stumbling over the long grass.

“Mister Wishbone, Mister Rowdy, you gotta come, they’re killin’ each other,” he panted out, as he got close enough, pointing.

A few more people were stirring at the noise and commotion. “Who?” Wishbone began, but Rowdy had a feeling he knew.

He grabbed his gun belt and ran, heading back the way Mushy had come, jumping over tufts of grass and fallen branches as he headed for the river.

He almost fell down the last slope onto the wide expanse of pebbles, shoving Sullivan out of the way - the kid seemed to be frozen to the spot, useless.

Gil and Baxter were on the ground, half in the shallow water. There were canteens scattered around them, as if Baxter had been filling them when the fight started.

Baxter had a rock in his hand, and Rowdy didn’t reach them in time to stop him slamming it into the side of Gil’s head.

It looked like he was losing though, pinned to the ground, one of Gil’s hands on his neck, the other punching him repeatedly in the face.

“Boss, Mister Favor!” He dragged Gil back by the vest, then tried to break the hold where Gil had grabbed onto Baxter’s shirt front. Gil staggered as he stood, splashing water up around them.

Rowdy stepped to straddle Baxter’s body, one of his feet landing in the cold water. He faced Gil, a glance at the blood on his face and the way his hands still clenched into fists told him everything.

“Boss,” he said, voice steady, hand held out, pacifying. “You’ll kill him.”

For a second he didn’t think Gil had heard - or he’d heard, but didn’t care. Water seeped into his boot as he watched and waited, every muscle ready to act. Gil was hard to work out when he was angry. It was as if a coldness came over him - his face unreadable. As if he was detached, almost.

Rowdy kept his hand out, ready to push him back. But finally Gil turned away, wiping his sleeve on his face, and walked a few steps.

“He’s fired.”

Rowdy barely heard it, but he glanced down at the man at his feet. Baxter’s face was a mess, nose clearly broken, blood trickling from his mouth and numerous cuts and grazes.

“You heard,” he said. Then stepped aside and watched as Baxter rolled over, pushing himself back to his feet. It seemed as if it was almost slow motion that Baxter began to stand, grabbing a rock, ready to throw it.

“Just try it,” Rowdy growled, gun already in his hand.

 

Gil didn’t even turn around. Rowdy didn’t know if it was because he didn’t want to see what he’d done, or if he didn’t want to see something that would re-ignite the anger that was obviously inside him.

Baxter paused. Then threw down the stone and spat at Rowdy’s feet. He turned away, and Rowdy watched as he stumbled slightly, heading for the trio of Wishbone, Sullivan and Mushy, who were standing at the top of the slope.

Other drovers were appearing behind, but they stayed back, obviously realising it was all over.

“Mushy. See he gets his things an’ gets outta camp,” Rowdy called. “Tell Pete.”

Mushy nodded, silent for once, and trailed a few paces behind Baxter.

Wishbone’s gaze followed them for a moment, before turning back to Rowdy. Expression questioning. Rowdy grimaced and turned to look at Gil’s back.

He was standing, head down, hands out of Rowdy’s view. Rowdy glanced back to Wishbone, and held up his hand, telling Wishbone to stay where he was.

He walked slowly, pebbles crunching underfoot. Approaching Gil like he would a wild stallion. He gave him space, walking around, then standing in front of him.

“Okay?” he asked, nervous, tentative.

Gil’s left hand was wrapped around his right.

As Rowdy watched blood dripped slowly from his chin, falling in vibrant splashes on the pale grey rocks. He could see the rise and fall of Gil’s shoulders slowing, stance relaxing almost imperceptibly.

He very slowly reached out. Sliding his hand under Gil’s, not caring as blood hit his wrist, tumbling down through the hair on his arm, leaving a vivid stripe.

“Here.” He didn’t grip Gil’s hands, just lifted them, noting a few gashes through the skin in the mess. “Wishbone oughtta take a look at you.”

Gil moved so suddenly that Rowdy jumped, sliding his left hand over his face, then wiping the blood and snot and sweat onto his shirt front.

“I don’t need Wish.” The words were growled out, barely audible.

Rowdy glanced up at Wishbone. He was still there, and Rowdy could tell he wanted to do something - to help.

“I…think you might,” he said gently. “Let’s have a look.”

He tugged his bandana free from his neck and crouched down, wetting it in the river.

As he stood Gil turned away from him again. “I don’t need no…”

Rowdy took a breath. He knew he had to be careful.

“You won’t be no good if you come down with fever, will you?” he said gently.

“I said I didn’t need any help,” Gil repeated, but his voice was softer now.

“Maybe we want to help,” Rowdy answered. He wiped his own wrist clean. “Maybe I want to help. Here.”

He gave up on the idea of helping directly, and just held the wet cloth out to Gil.

Gil glanced at him, then took the cloth, wiping it roughly over his face and hands. 

Blood immediately trickled from his nose again, followed more slowly by some on his cheek, sluggishly welling from a cut near his cheekbone.

“Help by making sure he leaves.” Gil answered, eventually.

“Pete’ll see to that,” Rowdy answered. Then he looked up to Wishbone and gave a jerk of his head to indicate he should join them.

Wishbone had a way of dealing with Gil. A no-nonsense method, not too gentle. Leaving no opportunity for Gil to push him away.

Sometimes it seemed to Rowdy as if Gil felt he didn’t deserve to be cared about.

Rowdy tried to show him that wasn’t true. But the worse Gil’s mood was, the harder he was on himself, and everyone else.

Gil glanced up at Wishbone’s approach, and Rowdy watched as his stance changed. He straightened up, shoulders back, all of the armour of command falling into place.

Rowdy supposed he should be glad he got to see the man inside it, sometimes.

“Here.” Wishbone grabbed at Gil’s hand.

Gil avoided the move, but then held his hand out anyway. And wasn’t that just like him, Rowdy reflected, rolling his eyes slightly. Everything done on his terms.

Wishbone prodded and squeezed, and Rowdy could see it hurt. Gil didn’t say anything though.

“Well, you may’ve cracked it. We bind that up tight, it’ll probably fix right,” Wishbone said. “What’d he do to you made you want to break your hand on his face anyhow?”

Rowdy watched even more closely.

Gil gave nothing away.

“He ain’t the sort of man we need on this drive.” Gil’s voice was flat, emotionless.

“Thought we needed every man we could get,” Wishbone countered.

“Not like him.” The words came quickly, snapped out, like a slap.

Rowdy glanced back toward the camp. Most of the others had gone back. Sullivan still stood at the top of the slope. He wondered why.

“Sullivan,” he called, and watched as the kid jumped, hands raised as if to defend himself. “Go to camp, send Mushy back here with Wish’s doctoring bag.”

Wishbone was pushing Gil toward a spot where a few large tree trunks had fetched up on the river bank.

Rowdy followed, and noticed that Gil never looked either of them in the eye, even when Wishbone had his head tipped back and was looking at the cut on his cheekbone.

Mushy arrived, holding the familiar black bag. Rowdy intercepted him before he reached Wishbone and Gil.

“Hey, has Baxter gone?” he asked, voice low.

Mushy nodded. “Yes, Mister Rowdy. I said to Mister Nolan, like you told me, and he made sure of it.”

“Good.”

Rowdy let him go, turning to watch Gil and Wishbone again.

He just wanted Gil to show some emotion. To explain what was going on.

Gil flinched as Wishbone splashed some alcohol around, but that was the most he reacted to anything.

Wishbone bandaged up his hand, then stood, shaking his head.

“Well, I’m mighty glad we’re laying over. You need to rest. An’ don’t go roping or nothin’ with that hand, neither.”

Gil gave a nod, and stood, turning and walking back toward camp, wiping his face with Rowdy’s bandana again.

 

Rowdy ran a few paces to catch up, but didn’t start a conversation, just fell in step.

Gil headed straight for the coffee pot, but Rowdy grabbed the mug from him and poured him a coffee.

“Wish’ll be mad if you make that hand worse,” he said, by explanation, pouring himself a cup too.

He watched as Gil glanced around the camp. Most people looked down or away. Cowhands were all a bunch of gossips, but even they had the sense not to ask anything right now.

Pete approached them, hands in his back pockets. “He’s gone. Didn’t seem none too pleased about it, though.”

Gil didn’t react.

“You pay him off?” Rowdy asked.

Pete shook his head. “He didn’t ask, and I wouldn’t’ve give it to him without your say-so, Boss.”

Gil grunted something Rowdy didn’t quite catch. Pete gave him a questioning look but he frowned and gave a small shake of his head. Pete shrugged and walked away.

Rowdy guessed he’d be back later, with plenty of questions.

Rowdy wished he had any answers.

 

Wishbone got back to the camp, carrying some of the canteens, with Mushy trailing behind, with the rest.

“Wish,” Gil said, voice quiet, but somehow still commanding. “Get to town. Buy whatever you need.” He reached into his top pocket and pulled out some bank notes, handing them over.

Rowdy noticed the frown on Wishbone’s face, but ignored it. Instead he walked with Wishbone back to the chuck wagon.

“Wish, you know what happened this morning?” he asked, voice low.

Wishbone shot another look at Gil, worry etched on his face.

“No. Folk were gettin’ up. Boss went to get a coffee. I was busy. Next thing I know Mushy’s running in here like you seen.”

“You ain’t got no idea why he were beating seven bells outta Baxter?”

Wishbone shook his head, silently, gazing at Gil across the camp.

“But you know, he musta had reason,” he finally said. “Ain’t like him to fight without good reason.”

Rowdy nodded slowly. He just wish Gil would share that reason. He felt like being in second command should mean he had some idea of what was happening on the drive. But it never seemed to.

 

Rowdy watched as Gil sat heavily on a box by the chuckwagon, and took a long swallow of coffee.

He hesitated, then walked back to sit next to him.

“Y’okay?” he asked quietly. “He hurt you bad?”

Gil shook his head slowly, flexing his fingers.

“Sure looked like the two of you was fixing to kill each other.”

He tried not to look at Gil, but couldn’t help but glance across a few times, during the silence. Gil was just staring at the ground. Rowdy couldn’t help but notice there were still blood matted into his hair where it stuck out from under his hat, and smears over one cheek.

“You know…you can tell me, right? I ain’t gonna….judge you or nothin’,” he said softly. “You say he’s bad, I believe you.”

Gil sighed. “Yeah, well, don’t matter no more. He’s gone. We got rough ground coming, we ain’t got time to do nothin’ but push beeves.”

Rowdy didn’t want to leave it, but he figured there wasn’t much else he could do.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day the going began to get difficult - the trail cutting up in some places, rocky in others as they began climbing onto the high pass.

Rowdy spent a lot of time just watching Gil, and was pleased to see his mood improved somewhat, despite the hard work - or, perhaps, because of it. There was plenty to do, so not as much time for thinking.

Gil threw himself into it, and a few times Rowdy worried, watching the occasional grimace of pain, as he hauled on his reins, his horse dancing between beeves, wheeling and turning to drive the herd back together, pushing them onward.

Mainly he was too busy doing his own work, though. Trying to prevent Gil from needing to ride back.

 

The camp ground that night wasn’t ideal, wagons parked between boulders which had tumbled down into the pass, and very little flat ground to be had for bedrolls or the chuck wagon. Mostly they were so tired that no one minded, though. Content to eat and sleep wherever they could.

Rowdy had been hoping Gil would be right, and a few men would sign on from the town, but no one had seemed interested. He wasn’t surprised, they’d know the trail was rough, and for a dollar a day you’d need to be very hard up for it to sound like a good prospect.

“How’s the hand?” Rowdy asked Gil, as they settled onto their bed rolls. For once they had some privacy, everyone finding whatever gaps they could in the rocks.

The small space they’d found was only just big enough for the two of them, but Rowdy appreciated the closeness. He knew some of the others would also be enjoying a little time alone - or possibly with someone, too.

Gil held it up, showing a very grubby bandage. “Fine. Ain’t smarting much.”

“Good.” Rowdy nodded. Then lowered his voice. “Don’t like it when you’re hurting.” He glanced around, checking no one had heard the admission. But he could only see the top of the chuck wagon, no one else was nearby.

“Yeah, well, don’t like it when you’re hurting neither. So ‘member that next time you get your skull cracked,” Gil said quietly back. He looked around, too, then brushed his fingers through Rowdy’s hair.

Rowdy smiled.

“Want to talk?” he asked, hopeful.

Gil gave a single shake of his head. “Ain’t nothing to say. He’s gone. It’s over.”

Rowdy nodded. Maybe he should leave it.

There was nothing more to be said or done. Baxter was gone, along with most of Gil’s bad mood, and he was thankful for both things.

He wriggled into a more comfortable position, and in doing so his knee nudged up against Gil’s. 

He didn’t move away, instead giving a little wriggle, then reaching under their blankets, his hand finding Gil’s.

Gil had his eyes closed, but lifted Rowdy’s fingers to his lips, giving his knuckles a single kiss.

Rowdy glanced around once more, then stroked his fingers over Gil’s cheek, the first signs of stubble rough under his fingertips.

“Sleep,” Gil mumbled.

“Sweet dreams,” Rowdy replied, grinning.

 

When he awoke Gil was, for once, still asleep beside him. Face peaceful, beneath the healing cuts and bruises, breathing even. Their knees were touching, blankets overlapping. He took a moment just to watch. Gil was on his side, left hand under his saddle, right resting on his gun.

He hated that Gil felt a need for such protection. Although there were times he’d been grateful for it. He’d never known anyone who could go from fast asleep to having their gun drawn as fast as Gil could.

He supposed the years in the army had done that. Always sleep light, one ear open, even one eye open, it seemed sometimes.

Gil woke, blinking in the daylight.

Rowdy grinned. “Mornin’.”

“Mm?” Gil rubbed his face. “How come I got the pleasure of waking up to you staring at me?”

“Well,” Rowdy smiled. “Just ain’t often I get to wake up an’ find you ain’t out keeping them beeves company.”

“Maybe I prefer them staring at me to you doing it.”

“Well maybe I’d rather be staring at the south end of a northbound steer myself,” Rowdy laughed, happy to tease.

“Wanna do something useful and fetch me coffee?” Gil asked, nudging Rowdy with a jerk of his knee, as if to encourage him out of his blankets.

“Nope,” Rowdy answered, unapologetically.

Gil sighed and sat up, running his fingers through his hair and jamming his hat on his head.

He cast his blanket aside and headed straight for the coffee pot, arching his back and swinging his gun belt around his hips as he went.

Rowdy smiled and stretched.

“Where’s the kid?” he heard Gil asking Wishbone.

“Kid?”

Rowdy sat up, and yawned.

“Sullivan.”

“Ain’t seen him this morning,” Wishbone was answering.

Rowdy stood, stretched again, and wandered around, looking down at each sleeping body.

Gil was doing the same - slowly, unobtrusively, checking the camp.

“Reckon he’s lit out,” Rowdy finally said, as he met Gil back by the fire.

Gil shook his head. “He…crazy fool, on his own? Out here?”

Rowdy shrugged. “Obviously couldn’t take it. Ain’t no surprise. Like you said, he was just a kid. Town ain’t so far back.”

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe.” Gil shook his head again. “Jus’ don’t like the thought… he is just a kid.”

The clanging of pot and pans signalling breakfast was ready interrupted their conversation, and they both turned, waiting for Wishbone to fill the plates.

Rowdy glanced at Gil a few times, as they ate. He didn’t understand what was different about Sullivan than all the others they’d picked up and lost during the drives. Some folk just weren’t cut out for the job.

Better they leave than get trampled or worse, Rowdy figured.

 

The day was uneventful, but harder work with every step, it felt. The ground became rockier and steeper and the beeves took more pushing than ever.

No one was talkative that evening, not even to grumble about the cooking. Wishbone didn’t even seem to have the energy to complain about the state of the trail for the wagons, despite it being rough and bumpy and dusty.

 

The mood in camp the next morning was low. More of the drovers than usual had had to ride night hawk, because of the awkward terrain, so everyone was tired.

Rowdy finished his breakfast and stood. He’d gone over the crew positions with Gil the night before, although he got the impression Gil’s mind was elsewhere.

“Pete, you’re on flank, Quince, Joe, both of you go on swing.” He continued down the list, finally reaching drag.

“I ain’t riding drag again,” Thompson said. “We virtually carried them beeves up here yesterday.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Jackson shook his head, throwing his plate aside.

“This ain’t some sorta volunteer job,” Rowdy frowned. “You go where you’re put.”

More voices joined in, arguing whose turn it was to ride drag, and who had done it too much recently.

Rowdy tried to shout to get some sort of order, and in the end glanced around, hoping Gil would step in and lay down the law.

Instead Gil was walking away, saddle over his shoulder, head down.

Rowdy sighed. Just when he could do with some help, it had turned it’s back on him.

He looked at the shouting, bickering men and rubbed a hand over his eyes. The noise of arguing grew ever louder - who had worked hardest, who had been out on nighthawk, and every other grievance built up over weeks of working in close quarters. 

“Hey,” he shouted. “I don’t care who rides drag, but some of you are, an’ some of you better get on an’ butt them saddles so we can get moving!”

A voice made him turn.

“I’ll ride drag. Ain’t no one in this outfit above it, so I’ll do it. Now get moving. Pete, ride point, Rowdy work loose.”

Gil was on his horse, at the edge of the camp, face emotionless, which was somehow far more worrying than open anger.

His voice was hard, icy, and Rowdy watched as silence fell throughout the camp, everyone walking away to get their gear prepared, no one looking at either him or Gil.

He was just glad he’d be well out of the way of Gil’s temper. And that no matter what else happened in the coming day, he wouldn’t have to worry about riding back to check on drag all the time. It was hard enough normally, without being in such bad terrain.

 

As the day wore on, he tried not to think about Gil too much.

The herd was moving slowly, but that was to be expected. Everyone was working hard, the cattle somehow even less willing than usual.

He rode up with Pete whenever he could, and dropped back to swing and flank when he was needed. He thought a few times about going back down to drag, but decided it might seem a little too much like he was checking up on the boss if he did that. It hadn’t seemed like Gil was in the mood to be checked on, even if it was just a friendly gesture.

It was sort of a relief to have a day away from being shouted and grumbled at, if he was honest. Everyone knew the job to do, his only task was helping out where he was needed. He could make his own decisions, work how he wanted to. Not have to second guess himself at every move.

The argument that morning in camp seemed to have cleared the air a bit, and most of the drovers had their heads down and were getting on with it. He was pretty sure Gil’s outburst had something to do with it, too. He didn’t much care, he was just glad.

They didn’t stop for lunch - the going was too hard, so Wishbone and Mushy passed out sandwiches and jerky to those who wanted it.

 

Pete had been hopeful that they’d get over the highest point before camp that night, safe in the knowledge that the going from there would be easier. So they pushed on until dusk, when finally the beeves began to spill over the very top of ridge.

Rowdy breathed a sigh of relief and found a spot in the rocks to let his horse stand, watching as the cattle came past him, calling out orders to slow them slightly, so they didn’t run away down the hill, and could be held for night camp a little further on.

He smiled to himself. The day had been hard, but they’d made it.

He watched and waited for Gil to come into view, so he could ride down to camp with him.

He hoped the fact the worst was now over would improve Gil’s mood. They had been short handed, but they’d done it.

Beeves continued to straggle up the incline, and finally riders came into view, lariats waving to spur on the last of the tired, reluctant cows.

Rowdy felt himself smile, the day nearly done. Then a slight frown tugged at his brow. He could just about make out the figures in the dust - and none of them were Gil.

He let his horse walk forward a few paces, squinting.

Any second he was sure a tall rider on a dark horse would appear, pushing on one last steer.

He was sure of it.

Harris gave Rowdy a loose salute as he approached. “’S the last, Rowdy,” he called, voice slightly muffled from behind his bandana where it was tied around his face.

“Where’s the Boss?” Rowdy asked, no longer caring about the beeves.

“The…he went, hours ago.” Harris tugged the bandana off his face, frowning. “We all figured he made his point.”

“Went…where?” There was a dryness in Rowdy’s throat he couldn’t blame on the dry trail.

Harris shrugged. “Don’t know. He just weren’t back with us no more. So…”

“But where did he go?” Rowdy asked again, anger and panic rising.

“I jus’…assumed he come on up,” Harris answered. “Figured…weren’t our place to say. Ain’t like he should be back here anyway. I mean….he’s the Boss.”

Rowdy ignored Harris and after one more look down the empty trail he kicked his horse on, pushing through the beeves, heading down to the site Pete had chosen for camp.

“Pete,” he called out, riding his horse straight through camp, ignoring Wishbone’s glare of disapproval. “You seen the boss?”

Pete frowned. “Not since breakfast. Why?”

“He ain’t back with drag - they haven’t seen him for hours.”

“He…well where is he then?” Pete glanced around, as if Gil might suddenly pop up.

“I don’t know!” Rowdy tried to force himself to keep calm, but he could feel a hollow in his chest which felt like it was growing, gnawing at his throat. “We gotta try an’ find him.”

“Quince, Joe, saddle up,” Pete called. “Follow me an’ Rowdy.”

Pete ran back to where Jesus was already re-saddling his horse, having heard what was going on.

“When did they last see him?” Pete asked, as he kicked his horse back up the trail.

“Hours ago, Harris said. He coulda come off - after that beating with Baxter he could’ve been hurt more’n he let on,” Rowdy said, hanging on as his horse slipped down some loose shale.

“We’ll find him. Might be he’s just rounding up some strays. You know what he’s like.”

Pete didn’t sound like he believed himself, so Rowdy didn’t even bother answering.

 

They scoured the trail as they went, hoping for tracks leading away from the herd, but it was well cut up from the hooves of the beef, so they were left peering into the darkness, around rocks and into gaps and other small animal paths.

Quince and Joe and a few of the others had caught them up and joined in, but with the failing light and lack of clues they soon gathered together, looking to Rowdy for some orders.

“Ain’t much we can do,” Pete said, looking up at the stars now becoming visible above them. “Ain’t no moon to speak of, risk losing someone else if we go searching in the dark on this ground.”

“We can’t…” Rowdy looked around, the hollow feeling inside him feeling like it had taken over. “We can’t just…”

“There ain’t anything we can do,” Pete repeated. “Look, I want t’find him as much as you do. But ain’t no sense in risking our own necks.”

Rowdy looked around, blinking into the growing darkness. “We can’t…” he said again.

“He’s…he’s tough, Rowdy,” Pete said. “He’s been through all sorts, always come out okay.”

Rowdy could hear the worry in Pete’s voice too, but he knew it wasn’t the same. He had no idea how much Pete had guessed about him and Gil, and wasn’t going to ask.

But he knew no-one would feel quite like he did.

“He wouldn’t give up on us,” Rowdy said softly, watching as the others began to turn back to the camp.

“We ain’t giving up,” Pete insisted.

Rowdy just shook his head, still looking around. He felt certain Gil would do something more, but he couldn’t think what.

He felt like a failure.

 

“Well?”

They weren’t even back in the camp before Wishbone approached, worry clear on his face.

Pete just shook his head, silently.

“We don’t know, Wish,” Rowdy said. His voice sounded strange, even to his own ears.

“Well, ain’t there something you can do?” Wishbone looked from Rowdy to Pete and back again.

Pete gave an awkward shrug.

“It’s too dark,” Rowdy answered, flatly. He felt as if he couldn’t let a shred of emotion show, or he might do something he’d come to regret.

Everyone in camp was silent, and people picked at their food, glancing off into the darkness.

It was the same when they lost anyone. Except this time it was the boss - the one person who wouldn’t…shouldn’t…leave the herd.

Wishbone walked over to Rowdy and nudged him with a cup of coffee. “Here. An’ try to get some sleep. I’ll have breakfast ready ‘fore daybreak, for them that wants it.”

“I ain’t sleeping,” Rowdy said. “How can I with…”

Wishbone hovered by his shoulder, hands twisting in a dish cloth, then finally sat down.

“Well, you won’t do him no good falling asleep in your saddle tomorrow, will you now,” Wishbone said, gently.

Pete joined them, hands in pockets.

“We gotta keep these beeves moving, too. There ain’t enough grass up here to feed a bunny rabbit. No water, neither.”

“I ain’t worried ‘bout the cattle,” Rowdy snapped.

“You ain’t,” Pete shrugged, keeping his voice low. “But the Boss sure will be, once he’s back.”

“Gotta get him back first,” Rowdy answered.

“Well, you me an’ Pete can go lookin’,” Wishbone said. “Pete for tracking, me for doctoring an’ you ‘cause…’cause it’s you. Joe an’ Quince can get these cows off this Godforsaken ridge.”

“There y’go,” Pete nodded. “That’s good thinking. Beeve’s’ll be moving so when we find the Boss he won’t be mad.”

Rowdy nodded. Good thinking that he should be doing, not the camp cook, if he was any kind of leader.

They would find Gil, he’d be fine, and the herd would be safe back on the lower prairie.

That’s how it would go.

That’s how it had to go.

There wasn’t an alternative. Not one he could bear to think about.

 

He didn’t sleep more than a few brief snatches. He’d wake and look around, still hoping that he’d see the familiar figure of Gil somewhere, bedded down, fast asleep, with some story about strays or someone who’d needed his help.

No idea of the worry he’d caused.

No idea of what he meant to people.

 

Dawn broke with no sign of either Gil or his horse, and Rowdy was up, saddling his own mount, before most of the men were awake.

Wishbone was giving Mushy some last orders, and Mushy was nodding, serious, quiet, attentive. Pete was already collecting things they’d need.

The three of them silently saddled up, bags full of supplies - Wishbone’s doctoring kit, bedrolls, some food and a few canteens.

Rowdy was both pleased to see they were well prepared, and worried about what they expected to find.

 

They rode slowly, looking in every possible place a man could be concealed. It was too slow for Rowdy’s liking, but he knew they had to be thorough, or they could miss him. It was more likely he was down a ravine, or stuck in rocks, than anywhere on the main trail.

At first Pete tried to keep them talking. Regaling them of a story of his and Gil’s time in the army, when Gil had gone missing overnight and had returned with a deer - the first fresh meat they’d had in weeks.

Rowdy bit back a sarcastic reply that they had three thousand head of fresh beef. He knew Pete was trying to keep their spirits up. It just sounded hollow to Rowdy. But then he figured it probably sounded pretty hollow to Pete, too.

 

As soon as they were onto softer ground Pete began looking for tracks, whilst Rowdy and Wishbone continued to look in even the smallest clumps of bushes and long grass.

They spread out on the grassy plain, each of them checking out any slopes a man could be lying the other side of, but also searching for any sign of hoof prints heading away from where they’d pushed the herd through.

 

It was hours later that Rowdy looked up at a sudden movement, and saw Pete heading for him, waving his hat.

He kicked his mount on, and their horses skidded to a stop as they met halfway.

“Rowdy, there’s some old settler’s place, a sod house, over yonder. It’s all in ruins, but there’s two horses tied up. I could see ‘em.” Pete looked both eager and worried, and Rowdy felt his own chest tighten.

“The boss’s horse?”

Pete shrugged. “Couldn’t tell. I didn’t want t’go charging in and maybe…disturb someone. Figured we should go in together.”

Rowdy nodded. “Yeah, yeah, we gotta be careful. I mean…maybe it ain’t nothin’ to do with him. Or…he’s helping someone out. But….”

Wishbone had ridden up to them as they talked, obviously hoping for good news, and Rowdy let Pete talk, not quite sure he trusted his own voice.

Inside him hope and fear warred to get the upper hand. He felt sick.

“We’ll stay behind this ridge, an’ ride to the east,” Pete said. “That way I reckon we can come up close without being spotted, if we go the last bit on foot.”

“And if it ain’t him?” Wishbone asked.

“Then we ask ‘em if they seen him,” Pete answered. “Ain’t that many people out this far.”

 

Rowdy and Wishbone followed Pete around the dip, and Rowdy could feel the pent-up tension gnawing at him, fraying his nerves.

He wanted to be doing something - not creeping around hoping. It might not even be Gil.

Or it might be, and they were already too late.

He tightened his hold on his reins and tried to keep his breathing even. Whatever happened, he’d just have to deal with it.

Like Gil would.


	4. Chapter 4

Finally they dismounted, and, guns drawn, began to make their way across the flat grassland to the wreck of the old home.

The two horses seemed calm enough, and as they got closer Rowdy moved nearer to Pete.

“It’s the boss’s horse,” he said, softly.

Pete just nodded.

Rowdy hoped it was a good sign - but there hadn’t been a single hint of movement from the place, apart from the two horses tossing their heads and swishing their tails.

Maybe, he told himself, Gil was hunkered down inside what was left of the mud walls, helping someone he’d found injured on the trail. He’d be glad to see them. Glad they’d brought supplies.

Maybe he’d just sought the meagre shelter of the old building.

Maybe he was fine, and even in the chill of the damp weather, he hadn’t built a fire for some reason.

He shook his head. He’d find out, any moment.

 

Finally they reached what was left of the building.

Rowdy cautiously peered in through a gap, sensing Pete and Wish were doing the same - guns at the ready.

There was a body. And for merest second, Rowdy felt as if his heart stopped. But then he came to his senses - the build was too big, clothes not right, he could see that even through the blood.

There was a lot of blood.

But it wasn’t Gil. It wasn’t.

He stared for a second. He thought he could see movement - breathing, maybe.

Pete walked around the tumble-down walls to where the doorway must have been, stepping over the heaps of sod to approach the body.

“Rowdy!” Pete’s tone sent a jolt of fear through Rowdy. Urgent and worried, not at all like Pete’s usual laid-back drawl.

Pete was pointing into the corner, to something out of Rowdy’s view.

Rowdy jumped over a nearby low spot in the tumble-down sod.

Gil was in the corner.

He was still.

And for a moment Rowdy felt as if he’d been kicked in the chest by a mule. He wasn’t sure he could breathe, or move.

He just stared.

Finally he forced himself to do something. Gil was facing the wall, legs curled up, as if trying to protect himself. His hands were bound tightly behind his back with rough rope.

There was black mud - on the floor, on Gil’s untucked shirt, the bare skin of his back where his clothes were all twisted around and bunched up. Dark against the dust that had gathered from riding drag the day before.

Rowdy realised it was where the earth had mixed with blood - the ground was churned up, flies had already found the congealing pools. There was vomit by the heap of turf which had once been a wall. In the small space there was a stench of blood, wet earth and shit.

Rowdy reached out, scared to touch Gil, in case the skin was cold, lifeless.

“What the…” Wishbone’s voice came from behind him, and Rowdy wanted to tell him to hush, to go away.

To give him this one moment. This one last moment of hope. One last moment when he was a ramrod, not a trail boss. When the man he loved was alive, not dead.

He touched Gil’s arm, near his shoulder.

The flesh was was cold, but there was the slightest of flinches, and it told him all he needed to know. 

He heard a sound like a sob, wrenched from inside his chest as he breathed out.

He couldn’t speak - but he didn’t need to. Wishbone was by his side in a second.

“Boss?”

Wishbone’s voice was soft, worried. Rowdy felt more than saw Wishbone looking at him, as if he’d know what to do.

He tried to gather himself. He squeezed Gil’s arm and gave a small shake. “Boss?” he said, softly.

Gil seemed to shrink further away, one boot sliding against the slick dirt, and Rowdy finally looked at Wishbone, hoping for help.

“Cut them ties,” Wishbone gestured to Gil’s wrists. Then turned, as Rowdy fumbled for his pocket knife. “Pete?”

“It’s Baxter. He ain’t dead,” Pete’s voice replied, from where he was crouching by the other body. “But he ain’t far off. Looks like the boss really did him in.”

“Well I sure don’t know how,” Wishbone replied, turning back to Gil. “All trussed up like a steer ‘bout to be branded.”

Rowdy knew it was Baxter. And he found he didn’t care what had happened - he hoped whatever Gil had done had hurt, and would go on hurting until the man breathed his last. All he could see was a blood soaked mess.

The bonds suddenly gave, and Gil gave a small grunt as his arms were released. His hands were covered in mud too, the bandage hanging loose, every wrinkle caked in dirt.

“Help me,” Wishbone ordered Rowdy. “Pete, you too.”

Pete was beside them in an instant, and looked down at Gil, shaking his head. “He…What in hell happened here?”

Rowdy tried to gather his thoughts - he wanted to know too, but they had more important things to do.

“What should we do, Wish?” he prompted.

“Here, lay him out on his back,” Wishbone ordered. “Careful now.”

Pete moved to take hold of Gil’s ankles, and almost got a broken knee for his efforts.

Gil kicked out like a wounded animal, then shrank back again, boots scraping into the ground as he tried to push himself further into the corner.

Rowdy stared at the boots. It slowly dawned on him that there was gore and a small tuft of the same fabric as Baxter’s shirt stuck to the spurs, too.

He looked back over his shoulder to where Baxter lay in an ever growing pool of shining blood so dark it seemed black.

Baxter’s eyes were closed, slow rasping breaths causing bubbles of blood and drool to form around his lips.

Flies circled, landing and lazily buzzing around.

It looked like Baxter’s guts were half ripped out. Reds and blues and the unnatural shine of offal gathered between his hunched shoulders and tucked-up knees. As if he’d been attacked by an animal.

Then turned slowly back to Gil. He could feel anger building inside him, and knew it wouldn’t help one bit.

He didn’t know what had happened. He didn’t need to. He just knew Gil had fought as if his life had depended on it, so he trusted that was exactly what had happened.

“Do somethin’,” Wishbone commanded.

Rowdy shot him a look, then reached out again, gently touching Gil’s shoulder once more.

“Boss, it’s me, Rowdy. Me, an’ Wish, an’ Pete. Wish is going to look you over, okay?”

There was a long silence, and it seemed everyone was waiting for someone else to make a move.

“Row’y?” Gil moved a little, seeming to realise his arms were free, moving stiffly, hesitantly.

“Yeah Boss, it’s me.” Rowdy looked at Wishbone, hoping for some help.

“You look like you need some doctorin’, Boss,” Wishbone said, voice strong, matter-of-fact. “How about we see to that?”

Gil’s eyes were open, but he wasn’t looking at them. For a moment Rowdy wondered if he’d somehow been blinded. The earlier fight with Baxter on the river bank had left his cheekbone cut, the skin yellowed with bruising. There was also a fresh cut near his temple, blood and dirt matted in his hair.

“Boss?” Rowdy said again, hesitantly. “Boss, did you hear Wish?”

Gil slowly moved, curling further into himself, but starting to sit up.

“Oh no,” Rowdy gently pushed him back with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Just lay easy.”

Gil wouldn’t even look at him. It was as if he didn’t want them there, helping him.

Rowdy realised Gil’s breath was coming in short gasps, muscles so tense they were solid under his touch, shaking with strain.

Rowdy slowly looked from him back to Baxter.

“Pete, Wish…go fetch the horses,” he ordered. “Get blankets, an’ a canteen. Maybe some whiskey.”

Wishbone began to argue.

“Just go,” Rowdy snapped. “Just…let me talk to the boss. Maybe he’s just a bit…confused, still. Needs a minute, I reckon.”

There was a pause, and he tried to even out his own breathing. Relax his own muscles. Giving in to anger wouldn’t help anyone. He knew that.

He also knew that whatever else was wrong, Gil didn’t need everyone crowding around him.

They finally left, and he almost sighed in relief.

“Boss…” He hesitated, then reached out, gently pushing strands of hair away from Gil’s forehead. A gesture he wouldn’t allow himself when the others were there.

He tried to ignore the flinch as Gil turned away, eyes closed. “It’s jus’ you an’ me. You can sit up, if that’s what you want.”

Gil still didn’t look at him, but shifted, awkward, slow, not reaching for help or uncurling. Face a blank mask.

“Let me help,” Rowdy said, softly. He slid his arm around Gil’s back, pulling his shirt down from where it was rucked up under his vest, supporting him. “You hurt?”

Gil had managed to drag his arms around to his front, and seemed to be caving in on himself, knees almost up to his chest. He seemed like he was struggling to control his movements.

Rowdy guessed he’d been tied up for a while, the muscles in his arms were probably strained and cramped. And a night out had left him chilled to the bone. He gently rubbed his hand over Gil’s shoulders.

Then he realised Gil was fumbling to do up his fly and refasten his belt.

He frowned.

“I ain’t hurt,” Gil finally answered, voice quiet, and for the merest second his gaze met Rowdy’s, eyes bloodshot, his expression bleak, empty, before he looked away again, wrapping his arms around himself, squeezing his own shoulders.

“Well…then we’ll get going soon as you’re up to it,” Rowdy answered, figuring there was no point in arguing.

He gently covered Gil’s cold hand with his own, where it was wrapped around Gil’s bicep. Then realised his palm was wet with blood that oozed between the fingers of Gil’s right hand, soaking into the matted bandage.

“You…” he glanced behind him, following Gil’s gaze. And saw Baxter. He moved a little, blocking Gil’s view.

Gil closed his eyes again.

Pete and Wishbone reappeared, looking slightly nervous and very worried.

“We should get out of here,” Rowdy said. “Reckon you can ride?”

Gil looked away from them all, focussing on a pool of blood nearby. “Yeah, sure,” he answered. 

His voice was emotionless, flat, too quiet.

“Let me help you up.”

Rowdy widened his eyes at Pete and Wishbone, nodding toward Baxter and giving his head a shake.

Both the other men looked from Baxter to Gil, and Wishbone gave a resolute nod.

Gil was heavy - Rowdy had assumed he’d be able to stand, but it was a struggle, as if Gil couldn’t make his legs obey him. He staggered, almost falling again, and Rowdy had to hold him tight until he could get an arm around his waist.

“Pete…gimme a hand,” he said. “Boss…you should ride with me,” he said, loudly enough for the others to hear.

Pete reached Gil’s other side, and Rowdy could see he was hesitant. Not surprisingly, after his first attempt to help.

“All right…Boss?” Pete stood close by, looking slightly relieved when Gil reached out and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

“Steady now,” Rowdy said, as much to Pete as to Gil. “Reckon you can…mount up?”

He certainly wasn’t sure, whatever Gil said. He frowned up at his horse. It seemed like Gil was struggling to walk, let alone do anything else.

“Hey, Wish, got some water?” he asked.

“Oh well, sure,” Wishbone quickly unscrewed the top from a canteen and held it out. The expression on his face was hard to read.

Rowdy found himself frowning again.

Gil looked confused by the canteen, so Rowdy grabbed it and held it up to him. “Here, drink.”

Gil did as he was ordered, and water spilled down his chin, wetting his shirt, washing some of the dirt from his face.

Wishbone shot Rowdy a worried look, then took the canteen back.

“There’s a stream, ‘bout…a mile distant,” Pete nodded down the slope away from the old house. “Reckon it’d be as good a place as any to get to. See what the Boss needs.”

“Right.” Rowdy felt a bit better - they had a plan. Not much of one, but it was something.

“Wish, hold him,” he ordered, and mounted up, then slid his foot out of the stirrup. He reached down, leaning as far as he dared.

Wish was doing little more than prop Gil up, he was too short to be much of a support, so had opted for gripping the cloth of Gil’s shirt and vest, pushing him upward.

It was obvious Gil was in no fit state to ride at all. He couldn’t even pick his leg up high enough to mount.

Wishbone glared at Rowdy, who glared back. “Help him,” he hissed, grabbing Gil’s forearm, in a grip that had to hurt.

Pete grabbed Gil’s boot and ensured it was firmly placed in the stirrup.

“Up you go, Boss,” he said, shoving Gil upward, hard, hands gripping his belt and hip.

Rowdy had no idea quite how it worked out, but between them they got Gil on the back of his horse. Pete quickly mounted up too, staying close, one hand firmly gripping Gil’s vest.

“Boss, come on, you gotta hold on,” Rowdy grabbed one of Gil’s hands and planted it on his own waist, holding it tightly. The other followed, slowly, hesitantly.

“Come on, ‘fore he falls off,” Pete said quietly.

Rowdy signalled to his horse to walk on, and was glad that Pete and Wishbone stayed one either side, each of them ready to help.

As they made their way away from the ruined house Rowdy could feel the ever increasing weight of Gil leaning against his back. He kept a tight hold of Gil’s arm, and his own temper.

He didn’t know what had happened between the two men, but he’d rarely seen Gil angry enough to kill someone with his bare hands - or boots, in this case - and the scene they’d just left behind them confused him even more.

“You still with me, Boss?” he asked.

There was a noise which might possibly have been a grunt of confirmation.

“Herd’s over the ridge,” Pete said, from behind him. “All going well.”

When that barely got any response at all Rowdy glanced around.

Pete was holding Gil up again, fist tight in the arm hole of his vest, and Rowdy turned to Wishbone. “Wish?”

“I don’t know,” Wishbone shook his head. “Need to get him laid down, see what’s ailin’ him.”

Gil’s hand released it’s hold on Rowdy’s waist and landed heavily on his thigh, then slid off, dangling limply, leaving a dark smear of blood in its wake.

“How far is it, Pete?” He wasn’t sure that choosing to move Gil had been the best idea now.

But he’d seemed…as if part of him was missing, and Rowdy just had a feeling it had to do with Baxter. He thought, with hindsight, that they should have moved Baxter, not Gil. But it was too late now to do anything but keep going.

“Jus’ down by them trees, should be,” Pete answered.

It wasn’t far, but to Rowdy it seemed as if it took forever.

Gil’s cheek was rested on the back of his shoulder, wet from his hair causing a patch of damp and cold. His weight was pushing Rowdy forward, and making his horse skittish.

Somehow, between Pete and Wishbone keeping Gil upright, and Rowdy hanging on tight to the hand he still held, they made it.

 

Once they reached the stream they found a spot which was clear, but with cover from a few trees.

Wishbone jumped down and quickly threw out a bed roll, then helped them with Gil, who seemed to be only very slightly aware of what was going on. He was almost a dead weight, and Rowdy struggled to lift his legs, once they’d slid him from the horse.

One of his hands was in something wet and slightly slimy as he wrapped it around Gil’s ankle. He tried to ignore it, not wanting to think about what it could be.

Pete and Wishbone managed to carry him under his armpits, his head lolling backwards. Rowdy had a second of fear when he thought they might be too late - that moving him had somehow been too much. He just knew he couldn’t have stayed, not in the stench and mess. Not with Baxter’s body.

There was a slight groan as they lowered Gil onto the blanket.

“Rowdy, you hold onto him,” Wishbone gestured to where he and Pete were still supporting Gil’s head and shoulders.

Rowdy walked around and sat down where Wishbone gestured.

“Try an’ keep him soothed,” Wishbone said softly. Then raised his voice. “Pete, bring a canteen over. Rowdy, wet a cloth, wipe down his face.”

Rowdy let Gil’s head rest back on his thigh, and tugged his own bandana from around his neck, pouring a little water on it and gently dragging the cloth over Gil’s forehead, wiping away dust and dirt and blood. Being careful to work around the newer injuries.

Gil tried to move away, but Rowdy held him gently.

“Hey Boss, ’s just me. Wish is gonna look you over. Just lie easy,” he said, as gently and softly as he could.

He watched as Wishbone felt over Gil’s legs, hands quick and deft.

There was a slash through Gil’s pants, on the lower thigh and Wishbone looked up at Rowdy.

“’S deep,” he said. “Ridin’ like we done won’t have helped none. Pete, get a fire going. Looks like..maybe he had a knife. Seems like he’s bled out plenty.”

Rowdy clenched his teeth. He should have let Wish check Gil out before they moved him. He could see Wishbone’s hands were red, and the material of Gil’s pants was shiny with the wet, slick blood.

Wishbone continued his examination. Gil seemed to Rowdy as if he was slipping in and out of sleep. He’d jump, as if waking, but quickly relax back into semi-consciousness, and Rowdy just tried to support him, without restraining. He gently stroked his fingers over Gil’s stomach and chest - an action he’d done hundreds of times before, in very different circumstances. He wasn’t even sure if he was soothing Gil or himself.

Rowdy watched as Wishbone carefully unbuttoned Gil’s shirt, and tightened his grip as Gil began to move again, reaching to push Wishbone away.

“Hey, Boss, it’s just Wish,” he said softly.

He wanted to kiss Gil’s forehead, to hug him properly, to hold him close and reassure him with soft words and touches. But for now, he knew all he could do was soothe him as best he could and let Wishbone get on with his work.

“Sure taken a bit of a beatin’,” Wishbone said, looking over bruising and grazes on Gil’s torso.

“Was bleeding from…someplace here,” Rowdy gestured to Gil’s arm.

“‘M okay.” Gil’s voice was slurred, although Rowdy hadn’t expected him to be awake at all.

“You ain’t,” Rowdy insisted. “But you will be.”

He helped Wishbone examine Gil’s arm without removing his shirt, and tried to gauge how bad it was from Wishbone’s expression.

Wishbone finished peering at the wound and wrapped it in a few turns of a bandage, over Gil’s shirtsleeve.

“Don’t seem too bad. That’ll hold it, for now. We’ll have another look, after seeing to the rest of him.”

 

Pete had dropped a pile of wood nearby and was arranging it to light a fire. Rowdy was almost jealous that the other two had something to do - something useful to achieve.

He let out a small sigh as Gil seemed to slip away again, arm dropping limply back to the blanket when Wishbone let go.

He wanted to be doing something - but he knew they were doing all they could, and keeping Gil calm was more important than anything else he could help with. It just went against everything inside him. He felt like the anger inside him was building with every cut and bruise revealed on Gil, and it had nowhere to go.

 

“Pete, once you got the water on, get back to the herd. We need more blankets and some fresh clothes for Mister Favor,” Wishbone ordered.

Pete nodded, settling the small coffee pot they had brought with them on the flames.

“Pete - don’t tell ‘em nothin’ about… back there,” Rowdy nodded back the way they’d come. “Just say the Boss’ll be okay.”

Pete looked down at Gil, then back to Rowdy and nodded, expression serious. “Sure thing.”

“You just stay there,” Wishbone said to Rowdy. “He don’t seem like he rightly knows what’s goin’ on, an’ if he starts fighting I’d bet it’ll be you can calm him.”

Rowdy nodded. As soon as Wishbone’s back was turned he gently stroked his fingers over Gil’s forehead, leaning down and pressing his lips to cool skin.

“Come on, Boss,” he said softly. “You gotta be okay. Wish is gonna patch you up. You gotta be okay.”

He reached for the canteen and poured a little more water on the bandana, holding it to Gil’s forehead, and gently wiping dried blood from his hair. He was pale, under the dirt and the tan from months in the saddle. His skin was cold, but he seemed to be sweating some.

The cool cloth seemed to bring him around a bit, as Gil turned his head, lifting an arm as if to fend Rowdy off.

“Shhh,” Rowdy soothed. “It’s just me, Rowdy. Can you have a bit more water? For me? You need it.”

He supported Gil’s shoulders and held up the canteen, feeling a sense of victory when it seemed at least some of it was swallowed, although more dribbled down onto Gil’s chest, adding to the stains and dirt on his shirt.

Rowdy moved to brush it away, but hesitated. He didn’t feel like there was anywhere he could touch Gil without potentially hurting him.

All of the casual nights, spent exploring Gil’s body by firelight, seemed like a dream now. His hand hovered over Gil’s chest, before he moved back to replace the cap on the canteen, instead.

“Well done,” he said, feeling slightly ridiculous. “You gotta keep having the water, right?”

“‘Fee,” Gil mumbled.

Rowdy bent down to try to hear better. “What?”

“C’fee,” Gil managed, turning his head so he was virtually snuggled in to Rowdy’s neck.

“I…uh, I’ll jus’ bet as soon as Wish has got you fixed up, he’ll have the coffee on,” Rowdy answered, almost smiling at the ridiculousness of the request, but glad that at least Gil was well enough to ask.

 

Pete left as soon as he could, and Rowdy was left waiting, holding on to Gil. A dead weight on his lap, but warm, breathing.

More than Rowdy had dared hope for.

He felt shaky himself. As if only now his body realised that it could have been the end - for Gil, for them, for the drive, maybe. For everything and everyone he knew.

He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about being on his own again, just another lonely saddle tramp looking for work.


	5. Chapter 5

Finally Wishbone was ready, a few things on the blanket beside him - he’d boiled up some horse hair in the coffee pot, and threaded it onto a needle. He also had a few bandages and his knife ready, just in case.

“Gonna have to cut your pants, Boss,” Wishbone said.

Rowdy appreciated his business-like approach. 

Wishbone grabbed Gil’s leg by the knee and began picking the stitching of the pants apart with the tip of his knife. Rowdy guessed he intended to sew them up again, later. His deft movements continued up the outside of Gil’s thigh, opening up enough of the seam to get to the entire wound.

Gil seemed to suddenly become aware of something and tried to lift his leg away.

“Hey, hey, no,” Rowdy wrapped his arms around Gil’s chest. “It’s just Wish. You gotta be still, he’s gonna fix you up.”

 

Wishbone’s hands weren’t entirely steady after he’d examined the wound, but he doused Gil’s thigh in alcohol, and Rowdy managed to hold on to Gil as he jumped when the sting bit into him, Wishbone dodging out of the way as Gil’s knee came up in defence.

Fresh blood spilled from the wound as it gaped open at the action.

“Easy now, easy,” Rowdy soothed.

He’d seen people bleed to death, in the war, on the trail.

He didn’t know how much blood back in the ruin had been Gil’s, but he knew it was too much. The soaked pants, the pools of it in the mud. He knew a man could only lose so much, before the life slipped out of him.

He took one of Gil’s hands and held on tight, as Wishbone reached out with the needle and hair to begin suturing. Needle dimpling flesh as he pushed it in and through, the edges of the wound pinched between his thumb and finger.

Rowdy felt like if he could just grip the hand in his hard enough, Gil wouldn’t die. Not if he had something to hang on to. He couldn’t. Rowdy wouldn’t let him go.

He glanced sideways, hoping to see Gil unconscious. Hoping he was spared this additional pain.

He wasn’t ready for the expressionless eyes, watching Wishbone’s every move.

The cut was long and deep. Rowdy could see far too much livid red flesh, with streaks of white. Like a butchered steer, laid open.

He couldn’t help but think back to Baxter, his guts ripped open. Red, deep purples, spilling out into the dirt.

Gil seemed to be just staring, as if it was happening to someone else. Impassive, unmoving.

It made Rowdy feel uncomfortable.

“Have some more water,” he said, hoping to cause a distraction.

Gil ignored him.

Wishbone looked up, and seemed as unsure as Rowdy about the glazed expression on Gil’s face. But he continued working, fingers slick with blood, needle stabbing through flesh, hair tied off every inch or so, to pull the edges of the wound closed.

It took time, Wishbone peering and struggling to form the knots, or re-thread the needle.

Rowdy sort of wished Pete had stayed behind for a bit. He hated watching, but he couldn’t drag his gaze away.

Gil was sweating, his skin cool and clammy, his breathing rapid. Rowdy wiped the damp bandana across his forehead again.

 

The line of stitching wasn’t that neat, but it did the job of stopping most of the bleeding. 

Wishbone wiped the wound off gently with a rag doused in alcohol, then managed to wrap a cleanish bandage tightly around Gil’s thigh, over the top of his filthy blood-soaked long johns, and got Rowdy’s bedroll to cover him with.

He nodded resolutely. “It ain’t perfect, but it’ll do for now. Once he’s stopped bleeding we’ll see to it proper. Let’s see that arm.”

The knife parted the softer fabric more easily, Wishbone slicing the entire arm off Gil’s shirt with ease.

“Ain’t so bad,” Wishbone nodded. “Have you fixed up soon now, Boss. Then maybe you can sleep some?”

Gil still just seemed to be staring.

“He…uh…wanted coffee,” Rowdy answered.

Wishbone rolled his eyes, but Rowdy could see a touch of a smile, too, and he hoped Wishbone thought of it as he did - a little glimpse of Gil, still inside somewhere, behind the blank expression.

“He did, did he?” Wishbone answered, voice aiming for stern, but failing to get much beyond fond. “Well he’s jus’ gonna have to wait. Got a few more important things to attend to first.”

 

Once the last of the stitching on Gil’s arm was complete, and Wishbone had wrapped a bandage around it once more, Rowdy and Wishbone lowered him onto the bedroll, tucking blankets around him.

“Here, Boss…” Rowdy reached out, taking Gil’s hand, pouring more water out, using the cloth to wipe the dirt and mud away from his fingers. “You’ll feel better, huh? Without all this dirt on you.” 

He repeated the action with the other hand, gently, aware of the swelling from the fight before. Once he was done he replaced the bandage too.

Then the coffee was put on, and Wishbone cut some bread and meat up, putting it on a plate by Rowdy.

“I don’t think he’ll eat,” Wishbone nodded to Gil, who was still staring blankly - as if he was asleep with his eyes open, Rowdy thought.

He didn’t know if you could do that. Maybe. Horses did.

He was just reassured by the feel of Gil breathing, occasionally moving just a little. Sometimes Gil would gasp in a breath, as if he might say something, but remained silent.

“But if he do, jus’…make sure he don’t choke.”

Rowdy nodded. He didn’t feel hungry himself, but ate a bit of the bread and meat anyway.

He offered some to Gil - even going as far as waving it under his nose, hoping for a reaction.

Finally Wishbone brought a mug over, with a little coffee in the bottom of it.

“See if he notices this,” he gave a small smile, although Rowdy could see the concern in his eyes.

“Boss, gonna sit you up a bit,” Rowdy said. He gently pulled Gil up to sitting, moving in close behind to support him.

“Coffee, Boss.” Wishbone held the mug up.

Gil reached for it. Rowdy felt relief flood through him - it was the first time Gil had seemed to interact with them at all for a while. Wishbone had felt all over his head, said he didn’t seem like he’d been knocked out, but Rowdy wasn’t so sure. He seemed confused, and his movements were still sluggish, face pale, lips almost blue.

“Here,” he wrapped his own hand around Gil’s, supporting him, stopping the mug hanging at an awkward angle. Like helping a child.

“Ain’t too hot,” Wishbone said softly. “But just sip it, gentle.”

Rowdy couldn’t help but smile when - with his help - Gil managed to drink a little of the coffee. Far from the usual way he gulped it down, but it was something.

Wishbone had made himself busy by the fire, and Rowdy was pretty sure he was purposefully giving them a little privacy.

“Wish says you’ll be fine,” he said softly, tucking the blanket around Gil’s chest a little better.

He knew Wishbone had said no such thing, but it didn’t seem to matter, he just wanted to say something. He slid his free hand around Gil’s waist, hidden beneath the rough blanket. There was warmth there now, and he slowly, gently, rubbed his hand up and down. As much for himself as for Gil. As much to reassure himself that this was real, Gil was alive.

“Yeah,” Gil answered, eventually. “‘m fine.”

There was very little conviction in Gil’s tone, but Rowdy nodded anyway. “You will be. Right now, you need to drink your coffee, an’ some water.”

He held the mug up again, glad that Gil’s hand seemed a little warmer under his own. Gil managed to swallow a bit more.

Rowdy wasn’t sure why, but the coffee did seem to be helping. Gil seemed a little more alert, more responsive. He was glancing around, instead of seeming like he was in a trance.

 

Pete arrived back in a cloud of dust, Gil’s and Baxter’s horses with him too. Rowdy was sure he’d ridden hard. He glanced up at the sun and guessed it had only been a couple of hours since he left.

“Everyone wanted t’come an’ help,” Pete reported, unloading a few extra blankets and unfurling one of them to reveal spare clothes for Gil. “How…is he?”

“Give me those,” Wishbone grabbed the blankets. “He needs rest. Sleep’ll heal him, you’ll see. Now help me lay him out.”

Rowdy put the cup aside, and managed to extricate himself. Then helped Wish put out one blanket for a pillow and put yet another over Gil.

Wishbone grabbed Gil’s hand, too, and squeezed it, then took his pulse.

“See how he is. Maybe move him closer to the fire if he don’t warm through a bit. Now leave him be. Might sleep that way.”

 

Rowdy didn’t want to, but he hesitantly stepped away, sitting next to the fire where he could still see Gil clearly. A few times Gil’s eyes seemed to drift closed, before snapping open again. He pulled the blankets tighter around him, rolling onto his side and keeping his fist bunched up in them.

Pete nodded toward him. “Seen men like this ‘fore. In the war. Like…something in ‘em broke. Didn’t speak, didn’t do…nothing. They wouldn’t even get off the battlefield sometimes. Sort a froze.”

Rowdy frowned. “They get better?”

Pete shrugged, and wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Sometimes.”

Rowdy looked back to Gil. There was no way that he wasn’t going to get better.

“Why’d it happen?” he finally asked.

There was a silence. Finally Pete took a deep breath. “Jus’…saw things, did things, no man should. Maybe jus’ couldn’t do it no more.”

“You did though. He did.”

Pete nodded slowly and sipped his coffee. “We did.” His voice was low, unsure.

“Then…he’ll be okay,” Rowdy murmured. “He will.”

He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Pete or himself. Both, maybe.

Pete threw out the rest of his coffee and went back to his horse.

“Brung out an extra bottle,” he said, pulling his saddlebags off. “Didn’t know if you’d need it.”

He sat back down, offering Wishbone the small bottle of whiskey.

“An’…” he lowered his voice, glancing at Gil. “I went back, to the…Baxter’s dead now. Figured we should spade him in sometime. Birds is already…Well, you saw, way his insides was all spilling out. Won’t be much left of him soon.”

Rowdy clenched his teeth. He didn’t care if Baxter never got a burial - it was more than he deserved.

“Had a look around. Found these,” he unfurled Gil’s chaps. “Need a bit of fixin’ up. An’ these,” he offered up two gun belts, complete with weapons, and a knife.

One of the guns Rowdy recognised as Gil’s. He picked it up and sniffed it.

“Hasn’t been fired.” He looked back at Gil. The entire situation felt like it was getting more inexplicable by the minute.

Pete lifted the other gun. “This one ain’t been fired neither.”

Wishbone shook his head. “What happened?”

“I wish I knew,” Rowdy answered.

“Go an’ sit with him,” Wishbone said softly. “Maybe he’ll sleep that way. Take this.” He poured out a bit of coffee and a tipped a generous slug of whiskey into it.

Rowdy approached somewhat warily, but Gil seemed to notice him, eyes fixed on his boots.

He crouched down. “Wish thought this’d help. Coffee, with a bit of medicinal whiskey.” He forced a smile.

He put it on the ground and sat down, crossing his legs. He kept his back to Wish and Pete, wanting just a little privacy.

Gil moved slowly, releasing his hold on the blankets, reaching out for the mug, long fingers wrapping around it.

Rowdy watched as he took a sip.

Then Gil reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a cheroot and slipping it between his lips.

Rowdy tried to ignore the tremor in his hands.

It took a few moments for him to produce a match, and Rowdy tried not to notice him fail to light it. He’d watched the little ritual hundreds of times. Gil flicking a match alight with his thumbnail. Effortless.

Somehow it hurt to see it failing.

He reached out in the end and gently took the match, scraping it on the sole of his boot, then holding the small flame out.

Gil took a long drag, the end of the cheroot burning brightly. Then released the smoke slowly.

“Want to talk about it?” Rowdy asked, fiddling with the bottom of his own chaps. Not wanting to put pressure on Gil.

There was no response, just another long stream of smoke.

Finally Gil picked up the coffee and took another sip. Then put the tin mug back down and slowly dragged his fingertip around its battered rim.

“Said he killed Sullivan,” he said, words slightly muffled by the cheroot still hanging from his lips.

“He…what?” Rowdy frowned. He’d expected the kid to be halfway back home by now. Wherever home was.

Gil gave a small shrug. “I dunno if he did.”

Rowdy just shook his head. “He’s dead. Baxter, I mean.”

Gil didn’t react. Rowdy wasn’t even certain he’d heard.

Rowdy wasn’t sure, but there seemed to be something between Gil and the Sullivan kid. Rowdy didn’t know what. They barely spoke a few words the entire time the kid was with the drive, as far as he knew. But then again, he didn’t keep tabs on Gil - and he had seemed more interested in checking on drag all of a sudden.

He wondered if there had been something there.

Something like he and Gil had. Something secret.

It would certainly explain why Gil had been angry enough to kick Baxter to death. And maybe Baxter had seen something, at the camp by the river, before the fight. Rowdy chewed his lower lip. It would explain that, too.

He knew he’d have to be stupid to ever expect anything to come of what they had. Gil had been married - women fell for him. He’d settle down once he found the right one. Want a family again, with his girls. He wouldn’t want someone like Rowdy around. What they had belonged on the trail. Away from polite society.

And, he supposed, he could find a girl too. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like girls. He just found being with Gil was, somehow, better. He felt like they just fitted. They could argue and make up and it felt okay - right, even. When he’d talked with women he’d never quite known what to say. There was none of that awkwardness with Gil.

When he finally looked down again Gil seemed to be asleep, his hand resting in the dirt still holding the smouldering cheroot.

He gently removed it from between Gil’s fingers, then took a drag himself. He didn’t really like them, but it seemed silly to waste it.

The taste was strong, slightly spicy. It reminded him of all the times Gil had crushed out a smoke before kissing him, the taste dark and strong in his mouth.

He wondered if he’d ever experience it again.

 

There was a noise behind him, just as he was almost dozing off himself.

“Rowdy, I’m goin’ back to the herd,” Pete said. “Figure you an’ Wish is okay here. Wish reckons maybe you should take the Boss into town once he can ride, get a room for a day or two, ’til he’s okay to catch up.”

Rowdy nodded.

“I’ll come back with Joe or someone, bury Baxter. He won’t ask no questions.” Pete’s gaze was on Gil, even though he was talking to Rowdy.

Rowdy nodded again.

Pete dropped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed. “Take care of him,” he nodded down at Gil.

“I will,” Rowdy said softly.

“He ain’t…very good at being sick,” Pete continued. “I had to…well, he just ain’t.”

“I know,” Rowdy reassured.

“I’m jus’ saying - you’ve got a hot head, and he’s stubborn. Don’t the two of you fall out. That’s all.”

Rowdy nodded again.

He knew everything Pete was saying was true. He imagined they’d have a few arguments, over the next few days. He almost hoped they would - anything was better than this. This shell that once held Gil, quiet, withdrawn, as if all the life had gone out of him. Rowdy almost longed for a stupid fight about something.

 

As darkness fell Wishbone built up the fire a little and set about cooking something up.

Rowdy just sat, watching. Sometimes Gil would shift a little, fingers clenching, brow creasing in a frown. Occasionally he’d let out a small noise.

A couple of times Rowdy reached out, stroking the backs of his fingers over Gil’s forehead, checking for the heat of fever.

 

Wishbone walked over, looking down at them.

He was one of the few people Rowdy thought probably knew what was going on between he and Gil. He’d never said anything, but Wishbone just seemed to know things. Rowdy wondered if it was because he was older. He didn’t seem to care - seemed supportive, if anything.

“Think we should wake him, see if he’ll take some soup?” Wishbone asked.

Rowdy gave a small shrug. He was happy Gil was asleep, but he probably hadn’t eaten for a day - and eating was supposed to make you better.

“Probably?”

Wishbone nodded. “You do it. I’ll dish it up.”

 

Rowdy hesitated at first. The moved to kneel next to Gil. He wasn’t sure what to do - he didn’t want to alarm Gil, so gently stroked a couple of fingers over his arm.

“Boss? Boss, wake up,” he said softly. “Wish has got us some dinner.”

Gil’s eyes opened, and for a second his whole body tensed.

“Boss, it’s me, Rowdy.” He dared to reach up and smooth Gil’s hair back. “Wish made some food. You need to eat.”

Gil lay still for a moment, not looking at Rowdy. Then finally moved, wiping his face with his hand, wincing as he hit tender bruises.

“Think you can sit up?” Rowdy offered a hand in support.

Gil did so, one arm wrapped protectively around his chest - Rowdy wasn’t surprised, he’d clearly taken a beating.

“I’m okay,” Gil waved Rowdy away, and then spoiled the effect by staggering as he tried to stand. 

Rowdy grabbed him, then slung an arm around his waist.

“Easy,” he said softly. “You’d bled a lot. Wish had to stitch you up.”

Gil reached down and pulled on his pants leg, seeing the long split down the seam.

“I…don’t remember,” he said softly.

Rowdy frowned a bit, but nodded. “Well, long as you take it easy you’ll be okay. So come an’ be near the fire.”

Gil limped heavily, hand tight on Rowdy’s shoulder.

He hoped it was for more than just physical support, but he wasn’t sure.

Wishbone fussed around, spreading out one of the spare bedrolls and helping Rowdy ease Gil back onto the ground.

“You sleep there tonight, Mister Favor,” Wishbone said. “Close to the fire.”

“Should get back to the herd,” Gil responded.

“Oh no,” Wishbone countered. “Pete an’ Quince got that covered. Herd’s fine.”

“An’ who’s feeding the men?” Gil countered.

“They ain’t gonna starve for one night of Mushy’s cookin’. Tomorrow, maybe, you can go into town, an’ I’ll go back to the drive.”

Rowdy found himself nodding.

“Town?” Gil responded, not taking the dish Wishbone was offering him.

“Yes, town. You can’t go ridin’ with the herd all cut up like you are. You need rest. An’ Rowdy’s gonna make sure you get it.” Wishbone shoved the soup at him harder, and Gil finally took it.

“Only be a few days, Boss,” Rowdy said. “Herd’s fine, now we’re over the high ground. You ain’t fine.”

Rowdy spooned up his own soup, and grabbed a large chunk of bread to dip in it. Then realised Gil was still just holding his.

“Eat, Boss,” he said, mouth full of bread.

He watched as Gil pushed the spoon around in the soup a little, before eating the smallest amount.

 

In the end, between himself and Wishbone they managed to bully Gil into eating about half of his soup, and some bread.

Then Rowdy took him aside, shaking out the fresh clothing that Pete had brought, and giving him a bowl of water and a cloth to wash off the rest of the mud and blood.

Rowdy sat a few feet away, his back to Gil, waiting, listening, ready to jump up and help if he was needed. But eventually, after far longer than he thought it could take, Gil was dressed in clean, undamaged clothes. He was breathing heavily, and when Rowdy moved to support him he could feel the tremors running through him. More like he’d fought a bronc than had to get dressed on his own.

Wishbone took his wrecked clothes down to soak them in the stream, hoping to get the blood out.

 

They settled - Rowdy put his bedroll close to Gil’s, and Wishbone took the other side of the fire.

Rowdy was tired - he felt like the day of worry, and the constant vigil since had taken its toll on him.

Whenever he glanced over though, he could see the firelight glinting off Gil’s eyes. He gave a small sigh and tried to relax, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep knowing Gil wasn’t.

Wishbone was snoring softly, and Rowdy envied him.

He rolled onto his stomach and reached out, tapping his hand on the ground, until Gil suddenly seemed to notice him with a start.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Anythin’ I can do?”

Gil looked confused for a second, then shook his head, settling back to stare at the fire.

Rowdy wasn’t sure what it was, but the expression in Gil’s eyes broke his heart.

He was so used to Gil being sure of himself - in control. Now he seemed anything but.

He glanced over at Wishbone again, then decided he didn’t care what Wishbone knew, or had guessed, or perhaps was about to find out. He pushed himself up on all fours, and crawled to Gil’s side, dragging his own blanket with him.

“You need to sleep,” he said, by way of explanation, as Gil looked surprised to see him heading over.

He lay behind Gil, plastering himself against his back, dragging the blanket over both of them, and wrapping one arm around Gil’s chest.

It took a few moments, but finally he felt Gil’s fingers tentatively stroke over his own, before settling, holding his hand.

Then, very slowly, the tension seemed to leave Gil’s body, and eventually the arm slid away. 

Rowdy couldn’t help but remember the same feeling during the ride over. But this time he was glad.

 

The next day, once Wishbone and Gil had had an argument about riding, money, the herd and a few other things Rowdy didn’t want to get involved in, they parted company.

Wishbone, begrudgingly, headed back to the herd, to find out what sort of mutiny Mushy had managed to cause whilst he’d been away. But not before he’d given Rowdy plenty of instructions about caring for Gil.

 

Rowdy expected to feel glad it was just the two of them left. Instead he found he was a little nervous.

He’d seen Gil sick or injured plenty of times - he’d never liked it, but it was an inevitable part of the job. And he heeded Pete’s warning the day before too. He wondered what Pete had been going to say. He guessed Pete had seen Gil sick enough times, too. 

But now he felt like it was his responsibility not only to get Gil better physically, but somehow to break him out of whatever was bothering him in his thoughts.

“Think you can mount up?” Rowdy asked, as he rolled their things into his bedroll.

“Sure,” Gil answered.

Rowdy nodded, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. He kept an eye on Gil as he moved around their little camp - he walked stiffly, his leg obviously causing him some pain. Every now and then he’d waver slightly. Rowdy probably wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t know the man so well. 

He carefully put the bandages and alcohol Wishbone had left him in his saddlebags. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to having to play doctor - he didn’t feel like he had the skills to back up any orders he might want to give Gil.

He just hoped they wouldn’t fall out too badly over it all. Having a fight about stupid stuff like that wouldn’t help him find out what was going on in Gil’s mind.

Rowdy loitered around, holding Gil’s horse and watching as Gil mounted with his right foot in the stirrup, holding himself up on arms which shook under the strain. Rowdy moved closer, ready to help, but Gil managed to shove his left boot into his stirrup and settle in the saddle.

“C’mon then,” Gil said, voice terse, tight, out of breath from the simple movement.

Rowdy nodded, quickly mounting his own horse and leading the way. He slowed slightly, dropping back to ride next to Gil, whose face was set like stone, mouth a thin line.

“Tell me if you need a rest,” he said.

“‘M fine,” Gil answered, too quickly, and Rowdy watched the muscles in his jaw working. He knew he wouldn’t get much out of Gil now. Not whilst they had things to do - town to get to. Maybe later, once he’d made it clear they weren’t going anywhere. Maybe then those walls would come down.

He slowed down a little more, letting his reins go, his horse walking on gently.

He didn’t comment on it, but he could see Gil was sitting stiffly, hand gripping the horn of his saddle like some kid who’d never ridden before. There was none of the ease of movement, Gil’s back was rigid, teeth clenched.

They stopped a few times, Rowdy urging Gil to drink. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but Wishbone had told him it was important, so he did it.

 

The town was small, but had a saloon offering rooms. They took one - no one caring that two saddle bums would save money by sharing.

Rowdy walked their horses up to the livery and paid a dollar for their feed and keep, then returned to find Gil still at the bar, bottle and two glasses in front of him. The bottle was already a few glasses short of being full.

He leant up, back to the bar, dropping their saddlebags at his feet, and looked around.

“Hurt much?” he asked.

Gil didn’t answer.

Rowdy supposed that was more an answer than the lie he’d been expecting.

He turned and rested his elbows on the bar, watching as Gil poured him a glass, some of the liquid spilling over the rim, wetting the wood.

He looked tired, Rowdy noted, even after the relatively short ride. Shoulders slumped, dark circles under his eyes. A clumsiness to his movements that showed he was weary to the bone.

“Thanks.” He sipped the drink. It wasn’t the worst he’d tasted, but it wasn’t the best either. Still, it cleared the dust from his throat. “Been upstairs?”

Gil shook his head.

“Come on then. Wish said you shouldn’t be using that leg.” He grabbed both glasses and the bottle, and led the way.

At the bottom of the stairs he stood back, waving for Gil to go up first.

There was a short battle of wills, before Gil finally gave in.

Rowdy watched how heavily he was limping.

He supposed it wasn’t that evident - if you didn’t know the easy, relaxed grace Gil usually moved with. But he could tell the man was hurting. The tight grip on the handrail. The stiff movement as he lifted his injured leg. The slow pace.

The position of the wound - above his left knee, running diagonally from the front down to the side, probably meant it had to be straining every time he bent the knee.

Rowdy wondered if he’d be able to persuade Gil to see a doctor during their stay - if there even was one in the small town.

He wasn’t sure how much of the whiskey he should let Gil drink, either. Part of him said it didn’t matter - drinking it and sleeping was better than not. But he wanted the man to talk, at least a little. To share whatever else was causing him so much pain.


	6. Chapter 6

Gil walked into one of the rooms, and Rowdy was pleased to see there was a lock on the door. He put down the drink, and turned the key in the lock, before hanging his hat on the back of the chair.

“Lie down,” he ordered.

“I don’t need…” Gil began, but Rowdy crowded into him, looking him straight in the eye.

“Wish says you gotta rest. Longer you don’t, longer we’ll have to stay in town.”

He stood his ground.

Finally Gil reached for his gun belt, pulling the buckle loose and reaching down to untie the strings. He didn’t break eye contact.

Rowdy gave him space, but not much. Then took the gun belt from his hands and dropped it onto the small table.

Gil sat, and for a moment looked completely defeated, before lifting his good leg up and tugging on his boot. It didn’t look like he was winning.

“Here.” Rowdy knelt and pulled on the boot. Once it had slipped off he reached for the other one, and it was only when he glanced up, as it finally began sliding free, that he saw Gil’s fingers gripping onto his knee - knuckles white. And his bottom lip caught between teeth.

“Sorry,” he murmured, wishing Gil had said something, but unsurprised that he hadn’t.

Wishing that he’d realised that it might hurt. Wishing it didn’t.

Wishing he knew what was going on.

He put the boots aside. They were still dark with blood, scuffed and soaked. He shook his head slightly as he realised one of the spurs was bent sideways.

Thought back to their camp, when he’d sat with Gil. Sat and gently spun the rowel, been stopped, by a gentle touch. And now…he glanced back at the boots. His innocent fidgeting that night seemed to at odds with what had happened.

How those spurs and those heavy boot heels must have ripped and ruptured flesh.

 

Gil sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard, cuffs rolled back on his shirtsleeves. Wrists still bruised and rubbed raw from being tied.

Rowdy watched as he pulled out his pouch of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. The familiar, economic movements - today there was no hesitation. And he only saw the slight tremor in the hands because he watched for it.

The match flared, and smoke began drifting to the ceiling of the room.

He remembered the conversation from the night before. If you could call it a conversation.

“Do you think he did? I mean, kill Sullivan?” He sat in the chair, close to the bed, watching Gil’s reaction.

Gil stared at the cigarette. The smoke was curling in and around itself. Rowdy wondered if he’d answer.

“I don’t know,” Gil finally said. Voice low, sad.

“Can we…I dunno, maybe one of the men knows where he come from. We could send a wire to his family?”

Gil shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t head back there. Maybe found other work. It’d only worry ‘em.”

Rowdy supposed that were true. It wasn’t easy, going back to your folks when your life hadn’t turned out how you wanted it to. He knew that.

Difference was, he’d wanted to go back for the sake of his mother. Everyone else had left her, one way or another. He wasn’t going to.

He poured out another half glass, nudging it along the table to within Gil’s reach.

“How come he got you?”

That got him a look. Hazel eyes, seeming to delve into his very soul. He shifted uncomfortably.

Gil had always been able to do this. Look at you and make you wonder what he was thinking. Usually it was moments like these that made Rowdy think he’d probably done something stupid. But this time he returned the gaze, not about to back down, no matter how much he wanted to.

Smoke drifted from Gil’s mouth, and suddenly he wasn’t looking at Rowdy any more, but down to the foot of the bed.

Rowdy felt a small, hollow, victory.

“Was jus’ pushing some beeves back to the herd. That’d split off, up a gully. He pulled his gun on me. Figured…it was better to go with him. Couldn’t risk him shootin’, herd stampeding, not there. Figured…there’d be chance to get away.”

Rowdy wished he’d ridden back, checked on drag. He imagined he would have realised pretty quickly that something was amiss. It didn’t even seem like anyone knew exactly when Gil had gone missing. He didn’t suppose it mattered, now.

“What’d he want with you?”

The silence stretched even longer.

Rowdy moved, kicking off his own boots, dropping his gun belt off and hanging it from the end of the bed. Then he walked around, and sat beside Gil, legs crossed. It meant his back was almost to the other man, but somehow he thought that might make it easier for Gil to talk.

He almost jumped as gentle fingers traced across his back, over the thin material of his shirt, between his vest and his pants.

“Wanted to show he were callin’ the shots. Not me.”

Rowdy reached out, smoothed a wrinkle from Gil’s pants leg with his palm. Gil was the one in control. He’d always seemed to be, anyway.

Except when they’d found him.

Rowdy thought on that for a moment.

“How?”

The fingers tracing across his back stopped. Paused. Restarted.

“Fear.”

Sometimes Gil’s voice was such a low rumble it was hard to hear. It took Rowdy a moment to process what had been said.

Fear just wasn’t a thing he associated with Gil Favor. Sure, they’d all been scared on the trail - more than once. But Gil seemed to deal with it better than most. He’d step in front of guns. Break up fights. Ride into dangerous situations. Step in front of knives, too, sometimes.

He glanced at Gil’s thigh, the fresh pair of pants unblemished. You’d never be able to tell anything was wrong, now.

And that was just the problem. So much, hidden away.

Rowdy supposed you had to take a gamble, when everything was at stake. He just wished he knew what it was all about, now, here, back at the ruin with Baxter, even before that, with Sullivan.

He didn’t see how one man could do what hundreds of others hadn’t - make Gil so scared he’d kicked the man to death. One man like Baxter. A nobody. Not just stopped him. Not hurt him. But hurt him beyond all need.

And then he thought back to Baxter’s body. He hadn’t taken a close look, but the blood, the scene they’d walked in on, it all told a story.

Gil had been fighting for his life - or so he obviously thought. 

At first he’d assumed Gil had been driven by anger. Because that was all he’d been feeling.

But he’d seen enough wild animals scared and fighting for their lives to know that fear could be an even greater drive than anger, sometimes.

 

He moved, lying down, propping himself up on his elbow. His fingers found their way to Gil’s shirt buttons, sliding in between, touching soft warm skin.

“You were scared?”

The cigarette had been replaced by the whiskey glass. Long fingers wrapped around it, holding it gently.

Gil sipped.

Rowdy waited. He undid a button, then another. Then saw some of the livid purple bruising on Gil’s stomach.

“He kick you?” He traced the gentlest of fingertips around the mark.

Gil gave a nod. A single movement. He could easily have missed it.

“He want to kill you?”

It hurt even asking. Hurt thinking about it. Hurt remembering those moments when he thought Baxter had succeeded. 

Gil’s fingers brushed over Rowdy’s arm, just above where his elbow was digging into the soft mattress, and gently stroked. Reassuring. Soothing.

“Maybe.”

He frowned. It seemed the fight had been brutal. With Gil’s arms tied behind him, and Baxter with a knife, it seemed obvious that he’d been trying to kill Gil. No ‘maybe’ about it.

He took the glass from where it was resting on Gil’s stomach, and sipped it, before handing it back.

Gil didn’t react. He never did.

Food off his plate, sips from his drink. He never even seemed to notice. Rowdy wasn’t even sure when the habit had started. Somehow it just had, and now he thought Gil probably expected it - sometimes pausing to allow Rowdy to grab something from under his fork. Sometimes even going as far as to cut food into a few pieces - as if inviting him to take a bit.

That was, he reflected, just like Gil. Never saying anything. Leaving you wondering. But sending out signals and making you hope you understood them correctly.

He wished he could figure out the signals he’d been getting for the past few days.

 

“I should check your leg. Wish says I gotta see it isn’t going bad.”

He reached for the stud on Gil’s pants. Faster than he could react fingers closed around his, stopping him.

He looked up, but Gil’s expression was unreadable.

He felt frozen, didn’t move his hand. Slowly the grip relaxed.

“I’ll do it,” Gil said, and twisted away, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and then stopping, pausing, fingers gripping the edge of the blankets.

Rowdy guessed it hurt. He wouldn’t be surprised if Gil didn’t have a few bust ribs.

He didn’t move, just stared at Gil’s back. Waited.

He wasn’t usually very good at waiting. Now he figured it was all he could do. Wait, and talk, and wait some more.

“I thought…you’d notice I was gone.”

The words sounded unsure. Gil’s shoulders were hunched.

Rowdy sat up, slowly, twisting to keep Gil in view. He scooted across the bed, sat next to him. Glanced sideways.

Gil was staring at the floor.

“I…thought you’d be angry, if I came and checked up on drag.”

It was the truth, but he felt like somehow he was blaming Gil unjustly. “I mean…after that morning, you going back there. I thought…”

Gil continued to stare downward.

“Yeah.”

“The boys back there - they just figured you’d had enough. You shouldn’t’ve been there anyhow. They figured you’d made your point, come on up again.”

“Yeah.” The answer was flat. No emotion.

“It wasn’t…as soon as I…we tried to find you. We searched.”

“Oh, sure, I know. I mean, yeah.” The speech was too fast. Gil was too quick in his agreement. 

Rowdy frowned. He did feel bad. He would have whoever from the crew had been taken. Except, he supposed, everyone else would have been missed - thought to be shirking their work.

Not Gil. People didn't question his movements.

 

Eventually Gil stood. He unbuttoned his shirt, the bandage on his arm white against his skin.

Rowdy waited, but Gil sat again, without undressing further.

He supposed he had to take victories where he could. He gently unwrapped the bandage, as Wishbone had told him to.

The cut seemed to be holding together okay. Ugly criss-crosses of stitches pressing into the pale skin.

He touched near it, feeling for heat, as Wishbone had explained to him. Then leaned forward and sniffed. Nothing smelt bad, so he nodded. 

“Seems okay. Maybe we’ll see if there’s a doctor, though. Have him look at it.”

Gil shook his head. “No. It’s fine.”

Rowdy poured himself a little more liquor, holding the glass loosely. He drank a few mouthfuls, then turned back to Gil.

“Here.” He passed the small glass over, watching as Gil took a mouthful.

Then he supported Gil’s arm under the elbow, fastening the bandage back up again.

 

They sat in silence, Rowdy glancing across occasionally. There was a vivid graze over the left side of Gil’s ribs - Rowdy guessed from a boot. And some other, older bruising, too.

“Why’d you fight Baxter, back by the river?”

Gil moved as if to look at him, but stopped the movement before it was completed.

He leant forward, slowly, carefully, resting his elbows on his knees.

“He was…giving the kid a hard time.”

Rowdy frowned. He tried to pick his next words carefully.

“What was…Sullivan to you? I mean…you seem mighty close to him, for a kid we just took on.”

Gil did look at him then, sitting up again, fixing him with a hard gaze. Expression unreadable.

“Like I said. He was just a kid. Needed someone to look out for him.”

“Why you?” Rowdy glared back, and he could feel a flare of anger inside himself. “He worth it? Smashing up your hand? Having Baxter cut you? He worth that?”

There was a pause, neither of them breaking eye contact. Rowdy felt his anger growing.

“You sayin’ he weren’t?” Gil finally asked, the words ground out between clenched teeth.

“Yeah, yeah, maybe I am.” Rowdy stood, turned his back on Gil. Then spun back around. “Maybe you should’ve sent him back, once you realised he weren’t cut out for it. Maybe then we wouldn’t be here.”

Gil stood too. Rowdy could see the muscles in his shoulders were tense. Fists balled by his sides.

“It wasn’t him that were the problem." Gil’s voice was hard. "It were Baxter. Figured we dealt with that. Didn’t…figure he’d hang around.”

“You didn’t figure Sullivan’d run out on you, either, huh?” Rowdy said, wanting to hurt the way he hurt at the thought of it. The thought of Gil having what they had with a new man.

Gil stared at him for a second, lips parted, eyes wide. “You think…you think there was something between him an’ me?”

Something in his tone sounded a little broken. Softer. Like he wasn’t even that angry.

Rowdy found himself faltering. But it made sense. And he had his pride. He didn't need Gil that badly. He'd rather be on his own than know he came second best to some greenhorn kid.

He shrugged, trying to seem more sure than he felt.

“Shouldn’t I? You seemed to care about him awful bad. Took him on when he weren’t up to it. He wasn’t a bad lookin’ kid. Ain’t like you an’ I have…not recently.”

And that was part of it, he knew. It had been weeks since they had any time to themselves. And in camp there was no chance. The odd grabbed moment, held hand, chaste kiss, as they rode around the herd at night. But that made sense, too, if Gil was getting what he wanted elsewhere.

“I didn’t…he weren’t…” Gil began.

“What am I supposed to think then? Huh? All this...everything happening between you and Baxter. You don’t tell me anything! One minute you’re takin’ him off drag like he’s proved himself, then you’re fighting. And Sullivan - you say he shouldn’t even be on the drive, then you’re standing up for him. How’m I meant to figure what’s going on? You think I wouldn’t be on your side? You can’t trust me enough to tell me?” He let out a breath and threw his hands up. “I thought we...I just want to help and I don’t know how.”

Gil turned away, and Rowdy could see the muscles in his back were tense. He leant on the chair, shoulders hunched, head down.

Rowdy waited. And the longer he waited the more worried he became that Gil didn’t trust him. Not enough, anyway.

Someone was laughing in the street below. Loud and completely at odds with the tension in the room.

“He was just a kid,” Gil said. Voice quiet, low.

Rowdy frowned, trying to follow the train of thought.

“So?” he asked.

The silence in the room stretched again, and Rowdy shifted his weight, glanced out of the window. He'd rather argue than have this awkward quiet. He felt as if the tension was growing, as if something was going to happen. It made him uneasy - the waiting. He’d rather push, rather get it over and done with.

“Second ranch I worked…there was a man. Foreman. In charge of the hands.” Gil began, still not addressing Rowdy. Still looking down at the table top. Voice strained, quiet. “He…was like Baxter.”

Gil stood up straight, and Rowdy watched as his hands closed around his biceps, arms hugged around his chest, dirty fingers digging into the bandage, hard.

Rowdy thought it probably hurt. Maybe it was meant to. Gil still didn’t turn around.

“Made friends with one new kid. Nothing too much. Nothing too friendly. Just…didn’t give him such a hard time as some others. Rode out with him sometimes. Let him join in on card games. Welcoming, sorta.”

Rowdy found himself nodding. It was hard starting out. The older guys always gave the young ones a hard time. If you could find someone friendly enough to help you fit in it made it easier.

But Gil hadn’t been like that with Sullivan. He’d pretty much ignored him, it had seemed, at first. Same as he did with most new hands. Like they weren’t worth the effort, until they’d proved themselves.

“Kid was broke. No pay ’til the end of the season.”

Gil’s voice dragged him from his thoughts. Back to the small room. The here and now.

Back to a conversation he wasn’t sure he wanted.

“So…foreman started lending him money. Not much. Just to buy in to the odd hand of poker. Just so he weren’t left out.”

“Sure,” Rowdy agreed. “I’ve known people like that.” He wondered where the story was going. He hadn’t seen anyone in their camp do anything like that for Sullivan.

Gil took in a breath, blew it out. There was a slight tremor in it.

He reached for his shirt, pulled out a cheroot and his matches before throwing the shirt back on the bed. The first match wouldn’t light, and he threw it aside, the movement swift, jerky, and tried again.

The match flared. There was a faint hiss and crackle as the tobacco lit and Gil took a long drag. 

“One day he rode out with the kid, to round up some strays’d been seen. Kid was pleased to be asked. Made him feel…special. To be chose. Real growed up.”

The words came out in a cloud of smoke.

"It were an easy job. Kinda thing he didn't usually get asked to do. Not with the foreman. Not ridin’ out like they was friends.”

"Yeah," Rowdy agreed. Easy jobs were always snapped up by more experienced hands. Privilege of seniority. And with seniority you got to choose who you worked with. Like Gil chose him.

“Once they was out, all alone, man said he wanted…payback.”

Rowdy scowled.

“Kid didn’t have no money. Man…said it weren’t no bother. He’d…take it another way.”

“What…” Rowdy began.

“Sex.” The word was harsh, low.

Rowdy felt his lips sneer in disgust. Thought back to the scene he’d found, back on the river bank.

Baxter there, fighting Gil.

Sullivan stood, frozen. As if in shock. As if something had happened to him that he couldn’t comprehend.

He felt a gnawing, creeping, feeling of worry deep inside his chest.

“Baxter…” he began.

“Yeah,” Gil answered, cutting him off. The word barely more than a grunt.

“Man pulled his gun.” Gil continued, and for a moment Rowdy wasn’t sure if they were talking about Baxter or not. Wasn’t sure if they were talking about the past or the present. Wasn’t even sure it mattered.

“Told the kid…it was a choice.”

“So?” Rowdy wasn’t sure he wanted to know - and was afraid he already did. He swallowed. 

“He chose not to die.”

Rowdy let out a breath.

He’d known it happened, in the prison camp.

He’d stayed away, with the few people he could trust. Been handy with his fists. Everyone knew - Rowdy Yates wouldn’t go quietly. He’d fight.

There were always kids easier to pick on than him. It’d just been that way. Sometimes he felt bad about it. But you had to look after yourself. He got good at looking after himself, and he was popular enough he always had people on his side. He walked the fine line between having friends and not relying on anyone else. And he was tough.

He didn’t know if he’d ever be tough enough to make the choice Gil was talking about, though. Alone, facing a man with a gun. He bunched up his fists. He just didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. He wanted Gil to stop, because the grip of fear was spreading through his chest and arms and he didn’t know what to do or feel.

“And then?” he pushed, knowing it had to be said, because leaving the story there would mean he was always wondering. And because if Gil was brave enough to tell him, he was brave enough to listen.

“Thought…maybe it was over. Maybe that was it. One time. Payback. Except…man like that…men like that…it ain’t over. It ain’t even about sex. It’s about power. It’s about fear. Told the kid, he ever let on, he’d be dead. Or worse.” Gil took a shaky breath. “Told him that again and again, every time…” His voice caught.

Rowdy shifted, uncomfortable, stuffing his hands in his back pockets. Wondering how he’d missed all the signs, wondering how Gil had seen the danger to Sullivan.

Because suddenly it made sense, putting Baxter up where people could keep an eye on him, instead of back on drag. Checking up on the kid.

He supposed if you’d seen it before, maybe you knew what to look for.

The only noise that broke the silence was him shifting uncomfortably, the scrape of his boot on the floorboards.

Gil took a couple more drags on the cheroot.

“How’d…what happened to the foreman? When everyone found out? You string him up?” Rowdy hoped they had. Hoped men like that died in painful way. Hoped he felt shame. Hoped he was lynched by the very boy he’d once had power over.

He watched Gil’s back.

Watched as he unclenched his fingers from around his bicep and reached an unsteady hand for the whiskey, didn’t even pour it, just took a long swallow, straight from the bottle.

“No.”

Rowdy screwed his face up.

“He just got away with it? Why didn’t you…enough of you, it don’t matter if he was foreman or whatever, you don’t let a man like that get away with it.” He felt a hot anger of injustice burning within him.

An anger that Gil wasn’t the man he thought he was. An anger that he wasn’t always the man he wanted to be, himself.

Gil was silent again. Rowdy hoped that he’d reacted to Baxter the way he had because it made up some for not having done so before. He took a breath. Tried to fight down his own feelings of shame. His own feelings of guilt. Because he knew, deep down, he’d turned his back on people he could have helped. 

Gil spoke in a soft, low voice.

“No one ever found out. Kid ran out one night.”

The coldness that gripped him that felt like it crept along his veins, hollowing out his stomach and clenching tight at his heart. Because he’d feared it, and somewhere, deep down, known it, but he didn’t want to believe it. 

“Then…how did you know…” And he couldn’t even finish. He felt sick, felt as if he could barely stand. Like his knees might just give out. “You. The kid was…”

Gil took another long swallow from the bottle, and when he put it down it hit the table far too hard, the noise making Rowdy jump. Gil’s knuckles were white where he held it. His head was bowed again, breathing too fast, unsteady.

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse, quiet, determined. Bitter. “Me.”

It was as if he had to say it clear, so there was no doubt. No more questions. Like once it was out it was dealt with. Over.

“God.” Rowdy barely breathed the word out, not knowing what to say.

He began to reach out, then stopped himself. He didn’t know how Gil would react to being touched. He didn’t know what to do. He tried to steady his own breathing. Watched as Gil brought his bandaged hand to his face and wiped over his eyes.

Gil’s words from before came back to him. ‘Just ‘cause I did it didn’t make it right.’ 

He felt the war of helplessness and anger inside himself. He felt hatred for a man he’d never known, and for Baxter, and the people in his prison camp - both the ones who should have been on his side and the enemy.

And then…he remembered. Remembered Gil, folded in on himself, afraid and withdrawn, in the muddy ruin of the house. Like a frightened kid.

Baxter dying with his guts ripped open only a few feet away. Remembered the awkward fumbling movements as Gil fastened his fly and belt.

He stepped forward, shoving the chair aside, legs scraping loud against the floorboards before it toppled and fell with a clatter.

His fingers closed around Gil’s shoulder, pulling him around.

Anger in his movements, anger in his voice.

“Did he…did Baxter…to you? Did he?”

Gil looked at him, expression raw and vulnerable, eyes bright, eyelashes clumped with the wet and salt of tears. He gave the smallest shake of his head, then looked away.

Rowdy could imagine the kid, the Gil Favor who was only fourteen or fifteen, all alone in the world, dealing with an older, more powerful man.

He could see, in an instant, how that kid had grown up to be the man in front of him. Shut off, lonely, who found trusting hard and accepting love even harder. 

“He tried.” Gil said, curtly. Emotionless. Stoic.

He didn’t need to say more.

Rowdy could understand now, the ferocity of the attack. Could understand why Gil would have fought so hard. Would have kicked the man to death, spurs ripping through his soft flesh, bones crushing under strong boots.

Gil wouldn’t have cared about the threat from gun or knife, not with so much at stake.

Rowdy could understand it and relish it - he wished he’d seen Baxter suffer. He wished he’d seen him realise he was going to lose to a better man. Wished he’d seen him realise the fear in Gil had only stoked the rage inside him, instead of made him cower.

“I’m glad you killed him,” he said, starkly. He didn’t need to add that he would have done it, if Gil hadn’t.

That brought the barest hint of a grim smile to Gil’s face.

Rowdy realised he was still holding Gil and relaxed his grip. He let his hand slide along Gil’s shoulder, thumb stroking his neck, his jawline, fingers sliding into the short hair on his nape.

He hesitated, then stepped forward, his other hand settling on Gil’s waist.

Gil stubbed his cheroot out on the wood of the table, head down, watching the glow being crushed out, wisps of smoke rising from the old wood. He didn’t move to return the gentle embrace.

But he didn't move away either. Just stood.

Rowdy thought of a strong ship. Even those would flounder in a storm. Sometimes sink. Rowdy kept his arms around Gil. Offering a lifeline, he hoped.

He pressed a kiss onto Gil’s forehead, tasting the salt of sweat, the grit from the trail.

He moved his hand down, over Gil’s chest, gently around his ribcage, trying not to hold, not to trap. Just be there, skin to skin contact. Human touch.

Trying to show kindness where there had been none.

Finally, hesitantly, Gil’s hands moved to him. One smoothing down his shirt front, the other at his side, thumb resting on his belt, hooking over it. He still didn’t make eye contact.

“Will you…let me check your leg?” Rowdy asked.

Gil’s hand moved, leaving his waist, going to touch his own thigh. Fingers rubbing over the heavy denim, over the slight bump of the bandage below.

Rowdy waited, giving him time, not wanting to push.

“Yeah.” Gil pulled his belt free, soft supple leather sliding through the buckle. Then pulled open his waistband and fly, the studs popping open, one by one.

The pants were pushed down, revealing off-white long johns.

Rowdy moved and pulled the curtains across the window, leaving just a small gap. The sun was still high in the sky, and the room was light enough to see.

Gil stepped free of the pants, then hesitated.

“I won’t…” Rowdy said. He didn’t know what he meant. He just knew that usually, in a situation like this, they’d be undressing each other, falling into bed, enjoying the privacy, the luxury of a soft mattress.

Now he was almost afraid to touch Gil. Didn’t want to get it wrong and bring old memories to the surface.

“I know.” The emotionless tone was back. Gil pushed down the long johns to around his knees, then sat on the edge of the bed. He glanced down at the bandage, rubbed his fingers over it.

“Can I?” Rowdy gestured.

Gil nodded, and moved to the edge of the mattress.

Rowdy knelt down, gently unwrapping the bandage. Hoping Gil had told him the truth. That Baxter hadn’t raped him.

He knew he wanted to believe it.

It was certainly easier to.


	7. Chapter 7

Some of Wishbone’s stitches had come undone - ripping through the edge of the wound, or just breaking the fragile horse hair. But mostly the wound was still closed, and after a quick check, Rowdy was happy it would stay that way, provided Gil rested.

He carefully re-bandaged the wound, then sat back on his heels.

“Will you rest? If I go and find some food?”

Gil nodded, pulling his long johns back up, arms wrapping back around his torso.

Rowdy pulled his boots on, slung his gun belt back around his hips, and reached for his hat. He turned to leave.

“Rowdy.”

He looked back to where Gil was resting back on the bed.

“Lock the door. Take the key.”

He glanced from Gil to the door, then nodded once.

 

It didn’t feel right, locking Gil in. But he assumed it would make him feel safer, so he went along with it.

The saloon offered some food, so Rowdy ordered a couple of meals, then leant on the bar waiting, glancing around occasionally.

He looked out of the window, wondering if he should go to the store, maybe buy some candy for Gil. He thought there was something about sugar that was meant to be good for getting your energy back.

Then he saw a figure walk by, head down, hands in pockets.

He ran, almost knocking over an older man who was entering the saloon. His boots were loud on the wooden walkway, and his target turned, along with everyone else, to see what the commotion was.

He skidded to a stop.

“Sullivan?”

The kid looked terrified. “Mister Rowdy…” he stuttered.

“You’re ali…” Rowdy realised what he was about to say, and stopped himself. “You’re okay?”

The kid nodded, looking unsure.

“I…only, the Boss, he was worried, when you lit out like that, is all.” Rowdy swallowed, looking the kid up and down, but he seemed fine. “You…you got back pay comin’. We didn’t know where to send it.”

“You…oh.” Sullivan looked a mixture of relieved and confused. “I figured…Mister Favor’d be mad, when I was gone. I just…”

Rowdy shook his head. “He…understands.” He felt a knot of emotion, tight in his chest. “Where are you staying?”

Sullivan gestured back up the street. “Man in the store give me a job, just for a few weeks, while his wife’s visitin’ relatives.”

“Well…I’ll come by. Bring you your wages,” Rowdy nodded.

“That’s…thanks,” Sullivan gave a small smile. “’S mighty decent of you, Mister Rowdy.”

Rowdy hesitated, wanting to say more. Then just nodded. “Yeah. Well. See you.”

 

Two plates of chicken and vegetables were waiting for him when he went back inside, and he took them up to their room, awkwardly balancing everything whilst he unlocked the door again.

Gil was lying on his side, hand on his gun belt.

Rowdy wondered how long it’d take him to sleep easy again.

Wondered if he’d ever really slept easy in the first place.

He put the two plates down on the table and smiled.

“Never guess who I just seen,” he grinned.

Gil raised an eyebrow in question.

“Sullivan - he’s workin’, down the store. He’s fine. Ain’t got a scratch on him.”

He watched the play of emotion over Gil’s face. Surprise, relief. And then the familiar barriers returned, as his mouth set back in a line, eyes averted.

“He’s….okay?”

Rowdy nodded. “I didn’t tell him…about Baxter…Didn’t know what to say.”

“I will.”

Rowdy nodded again. “I guess…he’d like to hear it.”

Gil nodded.

 

He ended up eating all of his meal and half of Gil’s. Then hesitantly removed his gun belt and boots again.

“Can I?” He gestured to the bed, next to where Gil was lying.

Gil nodded.

He lay down, leaving a gap between them.

“I ain’t broke,” Gil said quietly, addressing the ceiling. “I ain’t changed.”

“I know,” he answered. But couldn’t help but think back to the day before. When he couldn’t even get Gil to look at him, let alone speak.

He’d seemed broken then.

“I don’t want to…” He couldn’t put it into words. Didn’t want to push Gil back to…that. Didn’t want to lose what little of the man he knew had returned. Didn’t want to scare him.

He reached out, hesitantly, linked their hands. Moved closer, his chest against Gil’s back.

Five minutes later Gil was gently snoring.

Rowdy couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop thinking about it all. Sullivan. A young Gil Favor. A faceless abuser, and Baxter.

He had to crush down the anger threatening to build inside him again. Stop himself holding Gil so hard he’d wake him up. Had to tell himself it wasn’t his fight. It was over.

 

Gil woke again in the late afternoon, and carefully shifted onto his back.

Rowdy gave him space, at first, then moved a little closer to him, head propped on his elbow. He ran his other hand over Gil’s chest, avoiding the worst of the bruising, stroking the silky hair that grew over his breastbone.

“How did you know?” he asked. “What Baxter was doin’?”

Gil gave something like a shrug. “Jus’…saw Sullivan. Saw how he…was. Scared, like. Miserable. Saw Baxter always around him. Didn't seem right, man like that.”

Rowdy nodded.

 

He remembered how it had been, when he first came on to Gil.

He’d been drunk. The end of their first drive together. He couldn’t remember how, but somehow they’d ended up together, alone, out the back of the saloon in the dark street.

He’d probably needed a piss or something.

And suddenly, telling Gil how he felt had seemed like a really good idea. He’d spent months thinking about it. Fantasising about it. Nighthawk duty filled with pleasant thoughts about sex under the stars.

He’d felt good, whenever Gil invited him off to town, or to ride up the trail, just the two of them. 

Special. Like Gil had said earlier. Special to be chosen, out of everyone.

He’d grabbed Gil’s vest. Slurred something at him, spent a second looking into his eyes, not understanding what he saw, but hoping he wasn’t about to make a huge mistake, and tried to kiss him.

He couldn’t remember much about what happened then. But he hadn’t been punched, or shoved away.

 

He’d awoken, fully dressed, the next morning, tucked up in Gil’s bed in the hotel. With a hangover, and Gil asleep in the chair next to him, feet propped on the bed.

It could’ve gone very differently.

 

Gil had never given him any obvious signs he was even interested. But, somehow, Rowdy had picked up that it was different between them. At first he’d thought it was because he was ramrod. But even with Pete - who’d known Gil for years - there wasn’t the same closeness.

There weren’t many casual touches between them. Pete didn’t get to eat the best bits of bacon from Gil’s plate in the morning without comment.

So Rowdy had got an idea. Then he’d pushed it a little. Standing a bit too close. Touching Gil on the arm or chest when they talked.

And, sometimes, he’d caught the little smiles Gil threw his way. The touches in return - a hand on his back, gentle fingers in his hair when he’d been hit on the head. An amused grin and a shake of Gil’s head when he’d been cheekier than he would have dared with any other boss.

So when nothing had happened that night, he’d wondered if he’d got it all wrong.

 

Now it made a sort of sense. The conversation they’d had suddenly became clear.

 

“Yesterday…” he’d started, as he sat up and Gil awoke.

“You was soaked,” was Gil’s curt reply.

He’d paused at that. Rubbed his hand through his hair. It seemed like that was his answer. It would be ignored, whatever he’d done. Put down to drunkenness.

“I knew what I was about,” he’d finally said.

Gil had looked at him then, long and hard. “Did you?”

He’d found it strange, at the time. Wondered if Gil had been warning him off. Stopping him. Maybe he’d been wrong. Reading the signs wrong. Maybe it was the sort of thing you could push so far and no further. Maybe now he’d crossed a line he had no idea existed.

 

And that had been that. Until the next time they’d both been away from the herd, trying to find a new trail through some high ground.

Then it had been Gil who brought it up. Stone cold sober, sitting by the fire they’d built.

“Knew what you was about, did you?”

It had taken Rowdy a moment to catch up, to remember their conversation from over a week previous.

Then he nodded, feeling a little unsure, looking at Gil in the gloom.

“Yeah.”

“Done it before?”

Gil had been smoking. He usually was. Rowdy had noticed he’d use it to give himself time to think. He’d watched the long fingers, delicately knocking ash off in a quick, deft motion.

“Sure.” Rowdy didn’t mention it had only been with one other person. He’d smiled, tried to cover his nerves. “I mean, not with my trail boss.”

Gil had grinned at that. Shaken his head. Handsome features lit by the soft yellow flicker of the fire. It made his features dance, despite their usual impassive set.

“You?” Rowdy had finally asked.

Gil paused. Then smiled at him. Or maybe at himself. It was hard to tell. “Not with my ramrod.”

And that had been it. He’d moved closer. They’d sat, shoulder to shoulder. He’d smoked some of Gil’s cigarette, passing it between them until it was burnt down to nothing.

He’d felt like the shorter the cigarette got, the greater the tension was.

Gil had stubbed it out on the thigh of his chaps, flicked the crushed remains at the fire. Then slid his hand onto Rowdy’s thigh.

 

It hadn’t been how Rowdy expected.

Before, it had been another cowhand, about his age. They’d had sex, quickly, secretly. Very little said. Grabbed opportunities out on the range, or hidden away in the haylofts. Sometimes little more than a shared hand job.

Gil seemed more like he wanted to take his time. He’d kissed Rowdy.

That hadn’t happened before, with the other boy. Not really. A few half-hearted closed-mouth kisses, maybe. Not this. Not sensual and relaxed. More of a wrestle to the finish.

Rowdy had found he’d been impatient, at first. But then…the wait just seemed to build the anticipation. He’d slowed down, too. Taken the time to explore. It made him feel funny. A growing anticipation deep inside. A tickling itch that spread through his limbs, wanting more, wanting to touch, skin to skin.

Buttons were slowly undone, skin revealed, explored. Touches moving from soft and gentle to firm and commanding, and back again.

Rowdy had found himself half dressed - pants undone, shirt off - dragged on top of Gil. His hands in the dirt, belly to belly, chest to chest. That was different too. He’d always been taller than anyone he’d been with.

They’d kissed more. Just flimsy soft cotton long johns separating them. Somehow that had been exciting too. As if that thin barrier made the sensation heightened.

And finally Gil’s hand had slid down Rowdy’s butt, kneading the flesh, pulling him closer, sliding them together, legs entwined.

For a moment Rowdy had thought he might come just like that - and have to live with the sticky mess inside his underwear.

But Gil’s hold had relaxed.

Somehow they managed, with the barest amounts of communication, to end up naked, on a bedroll.

The fire had died down a bit, still casting a glow, but gone were the brightness of the flames.

It seemed fitting, Rowdy had thought. Simpler. The darkness hid a lot.

Shadows hid a lot. And he had been glad. He hadn’t wanted his insecurities shown to Gil.

 

Gil had produced a tube from his belongings - and the scent told Rowdy it was whatever he used in his hair.

“Makes it easier,” Gil had said. And Rowdy had taken the tube without hesitation, squeezing it onto his fingers, reaching behind himself.

He hadn’t questioned the slight look of surprise on Gil’s face then.

He had afterward.

At first they’d pulled on long johns and shirts, just enough to ward off the chill of the night. Rowdy had put more coffee on, Gil had built up the fire.

He hadn’t known what to expect. During the lingering warmth of orgasm, the heavy-limbed tiredness it brought. He hadn’t known if he should shake out his bedroll, retreat to the other side of the fire.

Gil had been calm though. Self assured. Like he always was.

He was the one who took out Rowdy’s bedroll, spread out the extra blanket to lie on, made it clear.

When Rowdy awoke at dawn the next morning, their bodies still locked together in a hug, he had found himself being watched by hazel eyes. His first instinct had been to look away. But he didn’t. And he remembered.

The look of surprise, the guarded expressions.

He’d wondered then.

It was as if Gil didn’t want to give anything of himself away, and also didn’t want to ask anything of Rowdy.

And Rowdy found that confusing. Gil was the boss. He had the right to ask. He did every day, on the trail, for the herd.

It had taken Rowdy a while to realise the two things were separate in Gil’s mind.

 

Now he felt like he understood why. On the trail there was hierarchy. Now…he looked at the man beside him. Here, they were equals. As much as they ever could be.

“Why didn’t you fire him, soon as you figured it out?”

He felt Gil’s body tense under his touch.

“We needed drovers.”

“Not men like that - you said. Not men…”

Gil looked at him. It was always hard to tell what was happening behind Gil’s eyes. He could see sadness there now. A doubt. The gaze fell away from him, and he hated it. Hated that a man like Baxter could plant doubt in Gil’s mind.

“When they give you a herd, they don’t give you the answers,” Gil said softly. “Just like they don’t when they pin them stripes on you in the army.”

“But you…”

Gil interrupted him. “You make your own choices. And the hardest part is knowing some of ‘em won’t be right and still carrying on making ‘em, every day.”

Rowdy moved his hand again. Tracing a scar on Gil’s side he knew was from the war. He knew all the scars on Gil’s body.

He’d never considered the ones that might be in his mind.

You never knew, he supposed. And that was the thing. You didn’t know if you were right before you made a decision. Sometimes you didn’t know after, either. Sometimes all you could do was wonder about the path you didn’t take.

Gil was watching him again. He shifted under the gaze, feeling self conscious.

“So, how do you do it?” he asked. “How do you keep making them decisions?”

Gil paused. His fingers traced over Rowdy’s own. Rowdy watched the delicate movements.

“You learn to live with it, whether you’re right or wrong.”

“And if you can’t?” Rowdy pressed. He caught Gil’s fingers, stopping the movement, interlocking them with his own.

“Then you got no business being in a position to make those decisions.”

Rowdy thought about it. It made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like being wrong. He liked people knowing he’d been wrong even less.

Gil was stubborn, or so it seemed. He didn’t like being wrong either, not that he was, all that often. That’s why people followed him, worked for him, trusted him.

Then he thought how close he’d come, to having the responsibility whether he wanted it or not. He was always one step from being a Trail Boss. And the past couple of days he’d felt like it wasn’t even a step. A hair’s breadth, maybe.

The memory of Gil, bloodied, scared…the thought they could’ve been too late. Or Baxter could have won the fight. They could have found Gil, cut up, dead.

“I’ll get us some coffee,” he moved abruptly, noticing the small jump Gil gave. He held his hand out, like he would to a startled horse. “Sorry,” he said quietly, almost not wanting Gil to realise he’d noticed.

 

There was silence in the room as he pulled on his clothes and boots. He walked out, clattering down the stairs into the warmth and noise of the saloon.

It felt different. Safe. Familiar. He could banish the thought of almost having made the wrong decision himself. Of almost losing Gil. His heart felt like it clenched at the thought.

He leant on the end of the bar and asked for two mugs of coffee. The bar man gave him a slightly odd look, but headed off to the small kitchen.

Rowdy supposed he should have asked if Gil wanted food, too.

The night was darkening outside, and he couldn’t help wondering about the herd. What would Pete be doing. How long before Wishbone sent someone to check on them.

His thoughts were broken by the man returning, two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands.

Rowdy nodded his thanks, and climbed back up the stairs.

He’d needed the break. A moment to himself, to process things. A moment without the impassive scrutiny of Gil.

He transferred both mugs to one hand and reached to open the door. The handle turned, but the door was locked.

He hadn’t expected it, and almost walked into the still-closed door, hot coffee splashing onto his skin. The sting focussed his thoughts.

He should have known. He’d only been gone a few minutes, but despite that, Gil had obviously got up and locked the door.

“Boss? It’s me,” he called softly.

How was Gil going to cope, back out with the herd. No doors, no locks.

It scared him.

 

The sound of the lock scraping open took his attention for a second, and he stepped inside the room as Gil limped back to the bed.

He sat on the chair, pushing the other mug toward Gil, where he’d sunk back down onto the mattress.

It scared him because of the conversation they’d just had. Somehow, it felt closer than ever, and more terrifying than ever. Being in charge. Being a trail boss.

He sipped the coffee. It was bitter and too hot, not as good as Wishbone’s. But it served.

Gil had both hands wrapped around the mug. He was staring into the dark liquid, looking lost.

“We goin’ to be all right?” Rowdy finally asked.

Gil’s gaze lifted then. The scrutiny made him uncomfortable. As if he was wrong to doubt it.

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

Gil loved to answer a question with a question. Rowdy had learned that early on.

It was another reason he was so hard to get to know. You felt like he kept everyone at arms length, somehow. With anger, sarcasm, obstruction. He’d push away, and if one way didn’t work, he’d just try another. Only some people got through.

Rowdy had been told he was stubborn plenty of times in his life. It was that stubbornness that had made him keep trying. Keep going back. Because somehow he knew it would be worth it.

He gave up on that line of questioning. Although he wasn’t sure the next one would be any more welcome.

“You ever tell anyone else?” He didn’t need to elaborate.

“No.” Gil’s gaze didn’t waver. The word almost sounded like a challenge.

“Not even your wife?”

No-one asked about the boss’s wife. It was one of those topics that was just off-limits. But he knew he needed to get Gil talking, and he didn’t care how he managed it.

The look he got would have made other men cower. But he stared levelly back, waiting, watching, hoping. 

“No.” The word was almost imperceptibly softer.

“Why?” He stretched his legs out, cradled his own coffee cup against his chest.

A wry grin tugged at one side of Gil’s mouth, and he broke eye contact, glancing down. He gave a small shake of his head.

“Who’d…want…” he shook his head again. “Ain’t no one’s gonna want a man who…”

He didn’t need to say more.

“You told me,” Rowdy said softly.

“You ain’t…” Gil stopped himself.

“I ain’t what?” Rowdy straightened up and sat forward.

Gil waved a hand and drank more coffee, as if dismissing the conversation.

Rowdy wasn’t ready to let go so easily.

“I ain’t what?” he insisted. “I don’t count? That what you mean? I ain’t nothin’ important?”

He wasn’t ready for the flash of anger in Gil’s eyes.

“That ain’t what I mean, no.” The words were hard. Gruff, almost threatening.

“Then what?”

Gil shook his head, reached for his tobacco.

The things he did when he didn’t want to answer a question.

Rowdy waited. He could play this game too.

He watched the quirly being rolled. The match being struck. The first cloud of smoke melting away into the air, tendrils curling to nothing.

He remembered when this all started - Gil’s mood, Wishbone sending him to try and get him to talk.

Just like he was now. What seemed like a lifetime later, even though it was only a week ago.

Remembered watching the smoke then, too. He hadn’t imagined they’d be having this conversation so soon. Or ever.

“What we got don’t mean anything? That what you’re trying to say?” he pushed.

Gil shook his head again. A small, quick movement. Dismissive.

“Sure sounds like it.”

Gil sighed, he wrapped his left arm around his bare chest, hand tucked in his armpit. Hiding some of the bruises. He rubbed his fingertips over his face, the cigarette leaving a wispy trail of smoke, tracing his movements.

“It means plenty. Now. But you’ll…find a girl. Settle. That’s all,” Gil finally said.

“Who says?” The answer was out of his mouth before he’d even thought about it.

Gil looked at him. “Young kid like you - why wouldn’t you? Meet a nice girl, have a family.”

“Why wouldn’t I stay with you?” he countered.

“Because…” Gil stood, took a few paces. Leant on the small table that held the water jug and bowl. “Because I ain’t the sort of person a kid like you needs.”

Rowdy stood too, slowly, hesitantly. But he didn’t move, beyond setting his cup down quietly.

“I can decide that for myself,” he said, softly. “And I ain’t a kid.”

“Yeah. Sure you can,” Gil answered. “And you will.”

“Who says?” Rowdy advanced now. “Sounds like you decided already.”

Gil turned, and they were face to face. He could smell the smoke on Gil’s breath, the hint of whiskey, the ever-present scent of cattle and horses that always clung to them both, softened by their time in town.

The sadness was back in Gil’s eyes.

“I ain’t decided nothing.” Gil’s tone was defensive. “I just know some things is easier, if you’re ready for them. Losing someone…” He stopped. Turned his head away, but Rowdy was too close for him to move further.

It wasn’t what Rowdy expected. Such a stark confession.

Such a truthful acknowledgement that he meant something to Gil.

He thought back to finding Gil. He’d been ready - terrified, but ready - for Gil to be dead, then. Or so he thought. But he’d been wrong. Seeing him, still, covered in blood. He hadn’t been ready at all.

He closed the final gap between them and wrapped his arms around Gil. Feeling the warmth, the solid bone and muscle. The living, breathing human.

“You’re exactly the person I need,” he said softly, hesitantly. “An’…if you give me the chance, I reckon I’m the person you need an’ all. You can’t go through your whole life thinking everyone’ll leave, or…you won’t never get to appreciate you got ‘em to start with.”

Gil’s hands rested on his back. He breathed out a long, slow breath.

“Words is easy,” Gil said, almost so quietly that Rowdy missed it.

He pulled back. Looking Gil right in the eye.

“No, they ain’t,” he said fiercely. “But they’re easier than fighting you. An’ that’s how it feels. Like I got to prove to you you’re worth more than…more than them beeves an’ this drive. Because sometimes I figure that’s all you think of because you’ve forgot there’s more to you than being trail boss. There’s a man behind that job. A good man. A father. Man I love.”

Gil began shaking his head instinctively.

Rowdy felt his temper flare again.

“You think you know people? Right? You’re a good judge? An’ you’re right.” Rowdy jabbed his finger into the slight softness of Gil’s chest. “You are. An’ I’d follow you - I have. Me an’ the others, we put our lives on the line on your judgement.”

Gil’s expression was guarded, but he remained silent as Rowdy took a breath in.

“But there’s a man you don’t seem to know at all. An’ that’s the one I’m looking at right now. ‘Cause I reckon Gil Favor’s spent so long hiding from everyone else he’s lost himself someplace along the way.”

His outburst was greeted by nothing but silence.

He turned away.

“I’m goin’ to get food.” He left the room, closing the door hard enough that something rattled inside the room.

He didn’t lock it.

 

He took a walk around the small town first, replaying the conversation in his head over and over. Wishing he’d kept a hold of his temper.

Glad he hadn’t.

He didn’t know what he’d walk back into. Maybe being fired. Again. Maybe it had all been for nothing. Maybe Gil wouldn’t want anything more to do with him. 

He checked on the horses, and found himself calming slightly as he rubbed the soft nose of his mount. They had food and plenty of water, so he was satisfied they were being taken care of, and a quick check showed their saddles and bridles were stored up on a rack too.

It was a simple task, but he felt better for it. The fresh air, the time alone.

The knowledge he had a way out if he needed it.

They both did.


	8. Chapter 8

Once he stepped back into the saloon he saw Sullivan leaning on the bar, a half-empty glass of beer in front of him.

He walked over and leant up beside the boy.

“Buy you another?” he offered.

Sullivan jumped a little, then smiled. “Thanks.”

Rowdy signalled the barkeep and ordered his own beer too.

“Can…I was wondering, why you’re back here in town?” Sullivan asked, hesitantly.

Rowdy sipped his beer. Thought about the man upstairs. About how much Sullivan should know.

“Come back with…”

There was movement, on the stairs. He glanced up.

Gil was walking down. Movement stiff, one step at a time, his injured leg kept straight. Grip tight on the handrail.

“Oh,” Sullivan said.

Rowdy tried to gather his thoughts. “Yeah,” he replied.

Gil made his way to them. Rowdy could see the tension in his body.

He nodded a greeting. “Sullivan.”

His tone gave nothing away. But he was close enough to Rowdy for him to notice he was breathing too hard, that even the small exertion had taken it’s toll.

“Mister Favor.” Sullivan sounded worried, timid.

Gil reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out some bank notes. Peeled a few off. “Here.”

Sullivan took them, eyes wide. “Mister Favor, it’s…too much. I mean, I was…”

“Keep it,” Gil said. “Get yourself home safe.”

Sullivan nodded jerkily, seemingly dumbstruck.

Rowdy had already gestured to the barman, and Gil ordered a beer, pushing a coin across the damp bar in payment.

He took a long swallow, glanced around them, then at Sullivan, who was still wide-eyed.

“Baxter’s dead,” Gil said, bluntly. “Thought you might sleep easier knowing that.”

Sullivan nodded again, and Rowdy felt sorry for the kid - there was no gentling him into the news. Just a stark announcement.

He knew it was Gil’s way though. Distancing his own feelings, closing down. Protecting himself.

It had taken him a while to work that out. It came across as him not caring. In fact the opposite was quite often true. But he didn’t want anyone to know that. He would rather appear uncaring than let any emotion show through. It was frustrating.

Rowdy felt like he understood that better now. But he also felt like he deserved more, now they were close. He deserved to see those emotions. And Gil deserved to be allowed to show them.

 

They ended up eating downstairs in the bar, mainly in silence.

Sullivan had gone, once his drink was finished. They’d both wished him well. Rowdy wondered what he’d do. Just a kid, who had no idea of the shockwaves his presence had caused.

Rowdy watched Gil. He did look better. Beneath the bruises his colour was healthier. Eyes less bloodshot. There was an assuredness to some of his movements, too. Gone was the hesitancy, the shaky weakness, even if he did seem to tire from the simplest things.

Finally they made their way back upstairs, more coffee in their hands. Rowdy walked behind Gil. Watching. Noting Gil breathing heavily by the time they’d climbed the stairs, and the arm that wrapped protectively around damaged ribs as a result.

He’d bust his own ribs often enough to know some of the pain Gil must be feeling. He also knew Gil would never admit to it.

 

“I’d’ve brought food up,” Rowdy said, as he watched Gil unsuccessfully try to remove his left boot then knelt down to deal with it for him.

“Wanted to check you was…” Gil said, trailing off.

Rowdy looked up, frowning. “Baxter’s dead. There ain’t anyone else to cause trouble.” He couldn’t think of any other threat.

Gil gave a half shrug. “Didn’t mean you was coming back.”

It hurt, a bit, if Rowdy was honest with himself, but he supposed it might have seemed like that, after their argument.

“You know me better’n that,” he said, slightly defensively.

“Thought I knew myself, too,” Gil answered, leaving Rowdy to wonder what he meant.

 

Rowdy undressed down to his long johns and climbed under the blankets, watching as Gil limped to the small wash basin, scooping water up from the bowl over his face with his un-bandaged hand. Then as he hung his gun belt from the end of the bed, closest to where he’d sleep.

Finally he blew out the lamp, and in the darkness Rowdy felt the blankets being pulled back, and the mattress dip.

He was fairly sure Gil was lying on his back, but reached out tentatively just in case.

His fingers encountered the soft tautness of skin between Gil’s ribs and hip. He paused, then continued the slide of his hand, coming to rest on Gil’s breastbone. The steady rise and fall was soothing.

His eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and he could just make out the glint of Gil’s own eyes, still open, staring up at the ceiling.

The bar downstairs meant there was no silence here, not like there sometimes was out on the plains. Someone was singing. Other voices rose and fell as people talked.

Gil moved. Rolled away, lying on his side, facing the door.

Rowdy paused, then followed. Hand sliding over Gil’s hip.

“I didn’t sleep, after,” Gil said, suddenly breaking the silence.

Rowdy pushed himself up on his elbow. He hadn’t expected Gil to talk. And now, in the darkness, he was afraid of what he might be about to say. Afraid he wouldn’t know how to respond.

“No?”

“I kept goin’, ’til my horse couldn’t go no more. An’ I knew I couldn’t risk…bein’ without him.”

Rowdy nodded. He’d done the same, once. Running away from the prison camp and the war, back home. He’d almost ridden his horse into the ground too, not believing he was safe, no matter what anyone said. But he hadn’t been alone. He’d had others, others who understood, who’d been through the same hell as he had.

“But even when I stopped…I couldn’t sleep.”

“Scared?” Rowdy asked. He slid his hand up Gil’s arm, fingers finding the soft torn edges of the bandage.

“Terrified,” Gil said, almost inaudibly.

“But he didn’t come after you?”

“No.”

Rowdy rested his lips on the back of Gil’s shoulder.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“Survived.”

The word was stark.

He’d heard Gil say it before. When people asked what he’d done in the war.

He wondered just how much of Gil’s life had been him living, and how much had just been the pure struggle of survival.

Being a trail hand was hard. But Gil returned to it, time after time, instead of going back east, to comfort. Rowdy couldn’t explain it, but he understood it. Understood that life out here might be hard, but it was so much more than just surviving.

“You find other work?”

His fingers continued to toy with the bandage, stroking around the edge of it.

“Not…I wanted to get away. A long way. I went…hundreds of miles. I…hunted.” There was a pause. “Stole, when…I had to.”

Rowdy could tell that that hurt Gil.

It’d hurt him, too, when he’d had to steal - just enough to survive. But he still hated it.

Maybe it was someone else’s survival he was stealing. You never knew. You told yourself it was what you had to do, and tried not to think about it too much.

There had been a lot of desperate people, after the war.

Before the war, too, if he was honest.

“We did too.” He paused. “Getting back, from…the camp. We had to. None of us had nothing.”

“There was nothing to have,” Gil answered, voice flat.

Rowdy nodded, remembering the desperation he’d seen, barely better than inside their prison, some of it.

Neither of them talked much about the war.

Others did, sometimes. Gil normally walked away from such conversations. Rowdy did too - for different reasons, or so he’d thought.

“And then?” He wanted to push Gil on. Didn’t want him stuck in the memories of his escape.

“Found a ranch needed hands. Signed on. I didn’t know how to do nothing else.”

Right back into the life he’d run from. Rowdy breathed out through his nose, long and slow.

“Bought a gun. And a knife. Learnt how to use ‘em.” Gil continued, then paused. “Turned into someone people wouldn’t mess with. Turned into someone I didn’t want to be. Someone I didn’t much like.”

Rowdy remembered Pete’s words. He had no idea how many men Gil had killed. He’d seen a few of them. But in the war, and before that…He didn’t really want to think about it.

He gave Gil’s arm a gentle tug, inviting him to roll over.

He was still slightly surprised when Gil did, though. And that a hand slid over his hip, anchoring them together.

Stubble scratched his upper arm as Gil seemed to tuck himself into the embrace.

He hesitated, then wrapped his arms around Gil, holding him gently, feeling the hot gush of breath against his chest.

This was what he’d wanted. This acknowledgement of emotions.

And now he had it, it made him uneasy.

 

The next morning he was woken by the sound of the door to the room closing.

Gil had gone, and he sat up slowly, glancing about for clues. Clothes, boots and gun belt had all gone.

He stretched, wondering if he should follow or not. After all, Gil had probably just gone to the toilet.

Probably.

He dressed slowly. Waiting to hear footsteps on the floor outside - the familiar clink of spurs.

There was silence. He guessed it was early, probably not long after dawn. A wagon went past in the street below, tack jangling and something rattling as it passed.

He pulled on his boots a little faster.

The bed squeaked as he stood, springs protesting the sudden movement.

He swung his gun belt around his hips, fingers fumbling the buckle.

And suddenly the door opened, Gil treading softly, two tin mugs of coffee in his hands.

The look on his face showed his surprise.

Rowdy gave a half smile and an apologetic shrug. He felt like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Thought…”

“Just went for coffee,” Gil answered, looking away.

He nodded. And wondered how they had come to this. Somehow he felt like they should be closer than ever. Secrets shared. Time spent together. Emotions laid bare.

Instead he felt like whatever held them together was like a fragile string. A spider web in the morning dew. Heavy under an unfamiliar load. Could break at any moment, collapsing in on itself.

“I want to help,” he said, settling back against the table.

Gil looked at him, searching. “You do,” he said simply.

Rowdy nodded, and took the offered cup.

“There’s a place down the street, does breakfast,” Gil made a vague gesture to the outside world. “May as well eat, ‘fore we leave.”

“Leave?” Rowdy shifted, straightening up slightly. “We ain’t…”

“Ain’t no reason to stick around here.” Gil sipped his coffee, looking at Rowdy over the rim of the mug.

“Was goin’ to see if there was a doctor in town,” Rowdy answered.

“Wish is back with the herd,” Gil immediately countered.

“An’ Wish ain’t a doctor,” Rowdy frowned.

“He’s done a good enough job so far.”

Rowdy breathed out, gritted his teeth. Then slammed his mug down, coffee spilling over his hand, the desk, dripping down onto the bare floorboards.

Gil jumped, and Rowdy didn’t care. He didn’t see why he should. He thought they’d been getting somewhere. Felt as if he was finally being trusted to know some of what was going on.

And now the dawn of a new day felt like a step backward.

“Did you listen to a word I said?” He advanced on Gil. “Did you listen to a God damn word I said yesterday?”

Gil stared levelly back at him, but somewhere in the depth of his eyes there was doubt. His free hand slid into his back pocket. Rowdy recognised the stance. Defensive, although deceptively casual.

“You want to go back to the herd?” Rowdy tried to keep his voice calm. “Go then. Go, and don’t expect me to be at your side. ‘Cause I ain’t going. You want to ride yourself into the dirt, ‘cause you’re too stubborn to listen to a doctor? Too stubborn to even try?”

“I don’t…”

“Don’t what? Don’t need no doctor? Don’t care if you live or die? ‘Cause sometimes I wonder if you do. And sometimes I wonder why the hell I should. But I do,” he felt his voice crack slightly. “Damn you. I do.”

Gil shifted his weight, looking down, into his coffee, into the corner. Anywhere but Rowdy.

“I’m sorry.”

They weren’t words Rowdy had heard fall from Gil’s lips many times. If ever.

He unclenched his fists.

“Ride out with me?” Gil said. Then held up a hand as Rowdy opened his mouth. “Not to the herd. Just…not here.”

Rowdy nodded at that. He’d take whatever he could get. 

 

Saddling up felt like the most normal thing Rowdy had done since sitting watching the beeves roll on by, just waiting to see Gil at the top of the ridge. 

Since the moment that worry had begun to gnaw at him.

He watched Gil throw his saddle onto his mount, doing up buckles and bridles as he’d done thousands of times. There was the slightest stiffness in his arm. His breathing had just picked up slightly, showing it wasn’t the easy task that it normally would have been.

No one who didn’t know him well would ever guess there was anything wrong.

Rowdy worked slowly, waiting, finally climbing into the saddle and waiting for Gil to mount up too.

Gil slid his right foot into the stirrup to heave himself up on, balancing his weight on his arms as he switched feet.

Rowdy watched, silently. It showed him that Gil was still hurting. As did the flexing of his still-bandaged hand afterward.

He gave his head the slightest shake. Stubbornness might well be the end of Gil Favor, one day. Or maybe it was the reason he’d got this far in life. Maybe both.

 

There horses set off at a steady walk, heading out along the rough track that led to the next town.

The morning breeze had a slight chill to it, and there was a touch of dew in the grass.

Then Gil kicked his horse into the long stride of a steady canter, breaking away from the path. Rowdy followed, settled into the familiarity of his saddle. The animal under him. The space and emptiness of the plains.

“Sometimes…just figure I can think better, out here,” Gil said.

Rowdy nodded. He could understand that. No one nearby, overhearing, interfering.

They both had their reins held easy in one hand, Gil had his other hand braced on his thigh, as if propping himself up. The bandage, although now a bit dirty, was bright against his chaps.

 

They ended up on a ridge, the rolling plains spread out before them.

Gil carefully slid from his saddle, one hand reaching for his horse’s neck, stroking it gently. The horse blew out a snort, shaking its head, tack jangling.

He looked off into the distance, and Rowdy found himself following the direction of the gaze.

“Bad weather comin’ up,” Gil said. “Still, herd should be on the low ground by now, you think?”

Rowdy nodded. “Sure to be.”

He knew it would be like this. Start on a safe topic. Start with the herd.

Gil gave a slow nod too. “I did.” He began. Then looked down at the dry ground, poking at a small rock with the worn toe of his stained boot. “I did listen last night.”

Rowdy huffed out a breath. “Didn’t seem like it.”

“Guess I…Just don’t rightly know what to do ‘bout it,” Gil answered. He stuffed his hands in his back pockets, shoulders hunched.

Rowdy gave a silent sigh. It was something.

“Feel like…It’s my job. To make the hard choices. To…live with that.”

“Not on your own,” Rowdy replied. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

Gil glanced at him. “But it ain’t…it’s my decisions, I get to live with the consequences. I get…” He rubbed his fingers over his forehead.

“We’re supposed to be workin’ together,” Rowdy pushed. “You, me, all of us. But you know, ‘specially you an’ me, Pete maybe. You said they didn’t give you all the answers, when they give you the herd. So maybe don’t expect to have ‘em. Maybe work with us.”

“It ain’t a democracy, running a herd.” Gil answered. “It’s my decisions, I get to make ‘em, I get to live with ‘em. Ain’t fair if I put that on anyone else.”

Rowdy shook his head. “It ain’t a democracy, no, but we’re a team. That’s what you seem to forget. We’re all in this. Everyone’s on your side - ‘cept when you decide it ain’t worth the bother of talking to us.”

Gil looked at him. “It ain’t…Are you listenin’ to me, now? It ain’t about the ‘bother’. I’m saying you don’t deserve to have men’s lives on your back! I’m saying I chose this, an’ it ain’t fair on you if…” Gil shook his head, an arm going around his ribs, and turned away slightly.

Rowdy guessed that raising his voice wasn’t being kind to his bust up ribs. And thought that was probably a good thing.

“We chose it too. Ain’t no-one joins up thinking droving’s easy. I didn’t figure on being your ramrod an’ not taking on responsibility. And I didn’t figure on…being your friend and letting you mire in it when things don’t go right.”

Gil looked at him at that. And Rowdy felt a little uncomfortable under the gaze.

“I guess…I spent a long time on my own. Making decisions on my own.”

“Weren’t on your own in the army,” Rowdy pushed. “You must’ve…”

Gil was already shaking his head.

“What?” Rowdy asked, irritated.

“Being in the army…an officer. You’re always on your own. You get orders you can’t question from above, an’ give ‘em to people who can’t question you below. And it’s damn lucky they can’t, because there ain’t nothing you can tell ‘em’d make any sense. Most of the time you don’t know why you’re doing the thing yourself.”

“Yeah, well, you know how it feels being your ramrod then,” Rowdy shot back.

He wasn’t sure what Gil’s reaction to that would be. It was out of his mouth before he’d even thought about what he was saying.

Gil rubbed his face, rough hand rasping over stubble. Then he gave a half smile and shook his head again. “Guess I do, at that.”

Rowdy felt like he could breath easy again. He rubbed his shirtfront, fingers bumping over buttons and gave a small smile himself.

“Guess it’s hard, sometimes, to…change,” Gil said.

“Yeah. Well.” Rowdy shifted his stance a little, trying to pick his words carefully. “Just like you want me to be a better ramrod, maybe you could stand to be a better trail boss, too.”

Gil gave a broader smile, and a huff of laughter.

“Yeah, that I could.”

Rowdy allowed himself the smallest of smiles, too. It had been a risk, saying such a thing. You never could be sure how Gil would take criticism. 

 

Gil pulled his tobacco out of his pocket and Rowdy watched the delicate movements.

“When I was in the army, my Captain…he was a good man. Steady. Folk liked him. A good leader,” Gil paused. “Maybe…first man I saw like that.”

Rowdy fiddled with the reins in his hand, waiting for the rest of the story. Watching the tip of Gil’s tongue trace the edge of the cigarette paper.

“Always figured…he just seemed like he was in control. Dependable. You know? Trusted him.”

Rowdy nodded. It’s how he’d felt about Gil. Once. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“One day, he just…rode out. Straight toward ‘em. Didn’t even…didn’t even load his weapon.”

Gil rubbed his jaw, then shook his head, and Rowdy guessed he was re-living the moment.

Guessed it felt a bit like every time he’d watched Gil needlessly put his life on the line.

“I mean, other men had done it…but him…” Gil shook his head again, as if he still didn’t believe it, then turned to light the cigarette that hung from his lips, hands cupped around his face.

“You…” Rowdy wasn’t sure how to phrase his question. “You…never felt like that?”

His mind went back to Pete, the discussion they’d had. How some people lost themselves and never got back. Some people just stopped living, even if they weren’t yet dead.

That got a smile from Gil, and Rowdy wasn’t sure why.

“Sure. I felt like it. I understood why he did, too. You give your orders, saddle up, you ride out, an’ you never know who’ll come back. You never know if you will. And you get to realise it hurts more when you do an’ they don’t. That’s why he did it. Couldn’t live with being the one to come back no more.”

“But you didn’t.” Rowdy hadn’t ever felt like he should give up. He’d seen people do it. People in camp who tried to escape just so they’d be shot down.

It had made him angry. You had to fight to survive, and giving in to the enemy seemed like you were just giving up. Rowdy hadn’t ever given up.

“I got hurt, one day. Artillery fire. I don’t remember much. Pete got me back to our side. Got me sent back to the hospital.”

“Good,” Rowdy answered. He knew that Gil and Pete had met in the war. He didn’t know exactly how - neither of them had ever really talked about it, but it made sense that Pete had been under Gil’s command, scouting for the calvary.

“Yeah.” Gil didn’t sound very happy about it. “Week or so later, he managed to come to see me. Rescued me again.”

“Again?” Rowdy frowned.

“Hospital weren’t a place to get well. It was just a place to die,” Gil said. “Course, you didn’t know that, ’til you was there. And by that time, you weren’t in no condition to leave.”

“That bad?” Rowdy wondered if it had been much different to the prison camp.

“Doctors - an’ there weren’t many, couldn’t cope. Most of ‘em just tried to drown it out, drank ’til they could ignore the screams. You couldn’t get away, the stench…the vermin. Folk who couldn’t move none gettin’ eaten alive by the rats.”

Rowdy shuddered.

“I was lucky, could still just about walk, get out of the worst. So Pete come by, found I was still alive, just had my skull busted up some, an’ got me out. He had a pretty hard time. I weren’t no use to no-one.”

“Figured…maybe there was a reason you didn’t like doctors much,” Rowdy ventured.

Gil gave a small smile. “I know they ain’t all like that. But I still trust Wish just as much as I trust most doctors. An’ he’s got more reason than they have to keep me alive.”

He took a deep breath, hand automatically going to his ribs again.

“Anyhow. Made me realise, I didn’t want to die. Come mighty close, an’…maybe had to, to realise that. Maybe had to spend that time, with nothin’ to do but think. Think about…my girls.” He paused. “My wife. Think that…Maybe I was still there for some reason. Maybe folk like Pete took risks with their lives an’ didn’t leave me out there, like they could’ve. Maybe I owed it to them not to do what the Captain done to me. Not to leave ‘em, with all those hard choices.”

“But…you figure that maybe, your captain just needed to…” Rowdy shrugged, not knowing how to put it. “Sorta…share it, some? So’s it didn’t just…eat away at him inside?”

Gil looked at him, and Rowdy didn’t let himself look away. He wanted to show he was strong.

“No. I figured some people could live with it, an’ some couldn’t. I could. So I did. An’ I have, pretty much most my life.” Gil took a long slow breath in. “‘I will be strong, so others may break.’ Man I knew said that once. Guess it stuck.”

Rowdy scuffed his own boot in the dust. Then looked out over the plain. He picked out a river, the trees beside it tracing the route. He figured it was probably the one they’d camped by.

“Seems an awful lonely way to live,” he finally said.

“Yeah,” Gil agreed.

“So. I’m saying, I can live with it too. Figure, even if I ain’t, I’m watching you do it. And, you know, that…ain’t easy to live with that neither,” Rowdy said, carefully. “Not when…I…feel like I do about you.”

The silence between them stretched. Just a slight creak of saddle leather as their horses moved, browsing through the sparse vegetation at their feet, blowing into the dust.

“Yeah,” Gil finally said. “Guess not.”

“And I’m saying I’m trying to be your friend. And sometimes that’s mighty hard, because it feels like you don’t want no friends.”

Gil sighed. “It ain’t…I just, don’t know how to find words to talk about it, sometimes.”

Rowdy hesitated. Then moved. He slid his hand up Gil’s back. “Sometimes it ain’t words that help.”

There was a moment when he wasn’t sure if he’d done to the right thing.

Then Gil moved, stepping into the embrace, the brims of their hats knocking together, arms around each other.

The silence stretched, and Rowdy didn’t care. He felt the solidity of flesh under his hands. The rhythmic breathing. Felt the fingers digging into his back, the need for this closeness, unspoken.

He knew he’d got it right.

“You ain’t alone any more,” he finally said. “And you’re not doing neither of us any favours if you act like you are.”

He felt Gil nodding and a slight tightening of the hug in acknowledgement.

Finally Gil straightened up, pulling away slightly.

“I know.” He glanced up to meet Rowdy’s gaze. “I know I ain’t alone now. Just…takes some getting used to.”

Rowdy nodded.

“I will try,” Gil added.

It wasn’t an expression Rowdy saw on Gil’s face often. An openness, a sincerity. 

Rowdy nodded again. “And I’ll try an’ remember that it ain’t easy, and…that you ain’t doing it ‘cause you don’t trust us. So when I ask, don’t…bite my head off. Because sometimes I figure it’s easier if someone asks.”

Gil turned away, and remounted his horse, obviously in pain as he did so.

Rowdy walked around his horse, sliding his own foot into the stirrup and starting to haul himself up.

“You’re the best friend I ever had, you know?” Gil said.

Rowdy gave a small smile to himself.

He knew Gil had waited to say it until he couldn’t react. but he found he didn’t mind. At least it was said.

He settled into his saddle.

“Then, as your friend, let me tell you we’re goin’ to find the doctor,” he said, smiling.

Gil was silent for a second. Then shook his head. “How about, first off, we go an’ get breakfast. Then…I guess we can look up the doctor. But if he says I’m okay, we’re goin’ back to the herd, right?”

Rowdy thought for a second, then nodded. “Figure we can make a deal on that.”


	9. Chapter 9

In town they ate a good breakfast, Rowdy enjoying the change from the ever-present stew on the drive. Fresh eggs, bacon, some sausage and potatoes were all present on his plate, and when Gil didn’t finish his, Rowdy ate his leftovers, too.

The enquired about a doctor, and were sent to a neat house on another street, which had a simple sign hanging outside, gently creaking in the breeze.

 

The doctor was middle-aged, a small man, who looked at them both over the top of small, gold-rimmed glasses.

“Get on to the store,” Gil said to Rowdy, once the man had invited him in.

Rowdy frowned.

“Ain’t no point you hanging ‘round here,” Gil continued. “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna run out on him. Get me some cheroots.”

He didn’t want to, but he left Gil to it, heading to the small town store and looking around. He bought some bread and dried fruit, along with a few cans of tomatoes and other bits, packing it all into a flour sack the storekeeper gave him.

As he wandered back out into the sunshine he wondered if Gil would tell him what the doctor said. He stood by the hitching rail and dug into the bag, pulling out a couple of dried prunes from the bag and chewing on them.

Then turned, at the sound of boots on the boardwalk.

Gil was walking toward him, limping slightly, one thumb hooked into his belt. Anyone else would think it was just a casual gesture. But Rowdy knew him too well. Could see the way his upper arm was tight against his ribs. Could tell it was because he was tense from pain.

He smiled. Gil nodded a greeting.

“So?” he asked, as it was obvious Gil wouldn’t volunteer any information.

“Said Wish did a good job. Reckons I can ride a bit. Said I should eat, drink and sleep plenty, something ‘bout losing blood. Anyway,” Gil looked around, then at the sack in Rowdy’s hand. “You…want to head on back? Or…”

It took Rowdy a moment to realise he was being handed the decision to make.

“Oh. Well…I guess, if you’re feelin’ up to it, we could make a start. Can always rest up someplace,” he squinted down the street. The town was quiet, only a few horses standing around, a few people moving about.

The range around should be quiet, too. He wondered if many people used the trail - he doubted it. And it would be easy enough to move off it to set up camp, anyway.

“Sure I am,” Gil answered.

“Would you tell me, if you wasn’t?” Rowdy hefted the sack over his shoulder.

Gil looked at him, silently. Then nodded.

Rowdy figured he didn’t have any choice but to believe him.

 

They shared the load between their horses - Gil taking the saddlebags, Rowdy their new supplies.

Rowdy was surprised when Gil set the pace at a walk. He’d assumed that now he’d given in and accepted they were going back to the herd they’d ride hard to get there in the day. He hadn’t thought it would be a good idea, but he’d been unsure what he could do to stop it, either.

Instead, after a few hours had passed, and Gil’s shoulders were sagging, they stopped.

“Figure we could have a rest?” Gil said.

Rowdy nodded, mutely. Surprise robbing him of words.

Gil groaned slightly as he slid from the saddle, hands automatically reaching to loosen off the cinch even before he’d wrapped the end of the reins around the fallen tree they’d stopped by.

Rowdy took a long drink from a canteen.

“Want to eat?”

“Guess you do,” Gil answered, and Rowdy watched as he squinted up to the sky, then slowly turned, scanning their surroundings.

He rubbed his stomach. “Sure could.”

“Eat then,” Gil answered.

They sat against the trunk of the fallen tree, and Rowdy dug in the bag and pulled out some of the bread, dried meat and some of the fruit.

He made a sort of sandwich and held it out to Gil.

“Oh, I ain’t really hungry,” Gil waved his hand.

“Doc said you should eat - you told me that, so eat,” Rowdy shoved the sandwich against Gil’s chest, forcing him to take it.

Rowdy tried not to fuss, but he did glance at Gil a few times, watching as the food was picked at, disappearing slowly.

He looked out over the grassland. The trail their herd had left was obvious, and somehow it made him feel a little better. As if normality - if you could call it that - wasn’t too far off now.

It wouldn’t be long before they began climbing the same path up onto the high ground as they had done a few days before. He glanced at Gil, wondering if he’d be okay with that.

Gil was fast asleep, head resting back on the log.

Rowdy didn’t have his watch with him - it was far too precious to wear while working, and stayed tucked away with his best town clothes - so he squinted up at the sky. It had to be early afternoon, he figured. They’d left town before lunch, and hadn’t been going that many hours. They could afford to rest a while, though.

He watched Gil. His injured leg was stretched out, the other tucked behind it, his arms relaxed, wrapped around his torso. Hat just shading his eyes, the dark shadow a stark slash across his face.

He looked peaceful.

Rowdy wondered if being back on the trail would be better or worse for him. He’d assumed the latter, but now he wasn’t so sure.

This was where they belonged, people like him and Gil. This was their home. Gil already looked more comfortable. More at ease. Somehow even more now than when they’d been in town.

 

It was an hour or so before there was movement from beside him. He’d been dozing off himself. The sun was just warm enough to be pleasant, the air filled with the gentle rustle of grass and the sound of birdsong.

He blinked and turned to see Gil slowly dragging his hand over his face, distorting his features as he looked around, seeming to see their surroundings for the first time.

“Feel better?” Rowdy asked.

Gil sniffed. “How long’ve I been asleep?”

Rowdy shrugged. “Hour or so. Seemed like you needed it.”

“I need to get back to…” Gil stopped himself, and held his hand out, long fingers spread slightly, as if forestalling any protest. “Yeah, I was tired.”

Rowdy couldn’t help but smile.

“An’ now?”

“Now I ain’t tired anymore,” Gil said bluntly, pushing himself to his feet.

 

They rode on, the ground slowly climbing, becoming rougher. The grass giving way to the hardier scrub plants, the dirt to more rocks and sand.

“What’d you want to be, when you was a kid?” Rowdy asked.

Gil glanced across at Rowdy, and Rowdy tried not to smile. He knew it was a stupid question, but he figured talking was better than not, as they approached the high ground.

“Don’t know. Guess…I was always gonna be a cattleman, really.”

Rowdy shrugged. “Don’t mean it’s what you wanted,” Rowdy observed. “I wanted to be a baker.”

He could picture the look Gil was giving him without needing to turn his head.

“A baker? You?”

Rowdy shrugged. “There were a shop, sold…well, I weren’t allowed in, but in the window, there was all…cakes, an’ bread an’…well, ’s what I wanted. Until…” He shrugged, smiling at the memory of looking into the small store. Being chased away by the baker. “’Til I wanted to be a soldier.”

“You’d’ve eaten most everything you baked,” Gil pointed out.

Rowdy grinned. “Sure would’ve wanted to.”

They plodded on. The going was harder now, the horses sometimes slipping, hooves sinking into the sandy shale, or skidding on hard rocks.

Rowdy had noticed Gil’s hand occasionally dipping into the saddlebag, but couldn’t see what it was he was eating. He used the opportunity of a wide patch to catch up to Gil and hold his hand out, a silent demand for a share of whatever it was.

Gil’s hand was cool against his palm and something was deposited into it.

He glanced down, expecting it to be jerky, possibly candy.

“Coffee beans?” He wrinkled his nose.

Gil shrugged, threw the contents of his own palm into his mouth, and crunched.

“You…” Rowdy shook his head. Then experimentally put one of the beans in his mouth.

It was a dark, bitter taste, and as he crunched into the bean it broke apart into rough chunks that got stuck in his teeth.

Gil silently held his own hand out. Rowdy returned the remaining beans and shook his head, spitting into the dust.

He ignored the half smile on Gil’s face.

“A barkeep, I guess,” Gil said, as Rowdy was still working his tongue around his molars to dislodge the burnt-tasting coffee.

Rowdy turned to him. “Barkeep?”

Gil shrugged. “Yeah. Figured…I don’t know. I knew a couple, they seemed right enough. Figured I could do that, when I was a kid.”

Rowdy shook his head. “You’d want to own the saloon, at least.”

There was another silence.

“Knew a couple of them, too. Didn’t think much of ‘em,” Gil finally answered.

“Still. Didn’t you think you could do better?” Rowdy asked.

“Know what my ma did, as a job?” Gil asked.

Rowdy shook his head. It had never occurred to him that Gil’s mother would need a job. His own ma had worked on and off, depending on where his pa was. And then, once his pa had upped and left them, worked all the time, for the local haberdasher’s shop, helping to measure up the women and sometimes sew the more basic items.

“Saloon girl.”

Rowdy’s head snapped around at that. “A…”

Gil shrugged. “’S how she met my pa.”

Rowdy blew out a breath. “She give it up…then?”

Gil looked around, the way he always did, when he wasn’t sure how much to say. “Sometimes. Sometimes we needed the money. ’S how come I knew the barkeeps, the owners. If he’d…gone off. She’d sometimes take me in town too. I’d sit out back, in the kitchen.”

“I never would’ve…figured…” Rowdy said slowly.

Gil shrugged. “’S why I’m always tellin’ you - I seen those type of women all my life. Seen the good, the bad, the ones shouldn’t have ever been there, an’ the ones knew every trick in the book an’ then some.”

“Yeah…” Rowdy nodded. “Guess you would.”

He thought back to the saloon in Borrel.

“You…when Baxter was with the girl, back in Borrel, and you sent him back to the herd…”

Gil didn’t answer at first. Then gave a small sigh. “He…I dunno what he was sayin’ to her, but the look on her face…”

Rowdy nodded, having guessed it was something like that.

“He was holding her, real tight. She didn’t want to make a scene, probably told not to. I couldn’t…”

“Don’t suppose…man like that, don’t suppose it matters who they go after?” Rowdy asked.

“Don’t suppose it does,” Gil answered, flatly.

 

The sun was dipping in the West as they climbed the steepest slope.

Gil stopped his horse, and Rowdy could see he was breathing heavily. He wished he’d thought to check on Gil more, but he’d been fairly preoccupied with his own mount, picking the way up the hill.

“Was here,” Gil gestured to a small offshoot from the path.

His hand was shaking slightly.

There were large rocks, wedged into the pathway, offering plenty of cover.

“He was waiting. Must’ve been able to see us coming. I think…he wanted the kid.”

Rowdy nodded, glancing into the pathway, but looking at Gil’s face. The muscle tight in his jaw, the sadness in his eyes.

“You couldn’t have done nothin’,” he said awkwardly. Needing Gil to understand.

Gil’s hand had been resting on his thigh for most of the ride. It had moved to his gun.

Rowdy reached out, his horse shifting under him. He rubbed his hand over Gil’s shoulder.

“He had a gun. There was the herd. You couldn’t’ve done a thing, not here.” He looked up, rocks towered above them, shadows deep. Anything could be hiding in there. Any gunshot could have set off a stampede as it ricocheted and echoed around the unforgiving stone.

“Maybe,” Gil mumbled, the word barely formed, no conviction.

“Come on, we should stop soon. Not here though,” Rowdy gave Gil’s arm a last squeeze. There was no way they could stop there. Even though Gil looked like he was barely hanging onto his saddle. No way they could stop with the ghost of Baxter lurking in every one of those shadows.

He understood though.

Just like he’d understood the day he and the others had been captured by the Union soldiers. Then and every day since he’d been certain that there was something he could have done.

A certainty that taunted him from the shadows, never truly showing it’s face. Never giving him the answer as to what that thing might have been.

A certainty that gnawed on his temper and made him quick to pull his gun, these days.

In ways he didn’t want to admit, he understood why Gil didn’t want to trust anyone, or rely on anyone, too. It scared him.

 

They stopped where Rowdy and the others had spent their sleepless night, their Boss missing, everyone on edge. The remnants of the camp fires were still evident, dark smudges on the edge of the trail.

There wasn’t much to burn, but Rowdy gathered up some of the dried gnarled shrubbery, and used the charred remnants of the old fires to get enough of a blaze going to heat the coffee pot.

The night brought with it a chill, and they unfurled their bedrolls to sit on.

Rowdy was close to the fire, hands held out.

Gil sat further away, leaning back on a rock, eyes darting around, every sound, every sigh from a horse, every skitter of rocks making his fingers twitch.

Rowdy poured out some of the boiling coffee he’d made, swirling it around in the mug, the steam filling the air in front of his face.

He used the excuse of passing it to Gil to move closer.

“He’s dead,” he said softly.

Gil’s gaze fixed on him then. Hard, cold.

“I know.”

Rowdy gestured to where Gil’s fingers rested on the dirt, scant inches from his gun. “Can’t shoot a ghost.”

Gil lifted his hand, fingers flexing.

Rowdy knew he should hand over the coffee, but instead he reached out with his empty hand, fingers closing around Gil’s.

He sat the cup in the dirt as he realised Gil’s hand was chilled, and wrapped his own, warm from the coffee, around it.

Gil’s gaze wouldn’t remain on him for more than a few seconds, constantly raking their surroundings, searching in the darkness.

“There ain’t no one out there,” Rowdy said, gently, glancing around himself.

“I know.” Gil pulled his hand back, reaching for the coffee, holding it close to his face, gently blowing on the hot liquid. Hiding behind it. Eyes still moving, searching.

Rowdy got his own coffee, and settled next to Gil, his knee resting against Gil’s thigh.

“I used to be scared of the dark,” Rowdy said, hoping to get a bit of a conversation going. He glanced around into the shadows. “Don’t know why. Guess I grew out of it.”

Gil took a sip of the coffee.

“Were you?” Rowdy asked, when it was clear he wasn’t going to any response.

“No.”

Rowdy gave a small sigh and drank some of his own coffee. He wasn’t quite sure if it was too strong or not strong enough, but it wasn’t as good as Wishbone’s.

“When I was…five, six maybe, I ran away.” Gil finally said, not looking at Rowdy. “At night. Didn’t get too far. Almost ran right into a coyote. Figure…I always was more scared of what the dark was hiding than the dark itself.”

Rowdy nodded slowly. He wasn’t surprised, after the story of Gil’s escape from the ranch.

Gil sometimes sat by the fire in their camps, but more often would be somewhere on the edge, by the wagons, off on his own. Rowdy had always assumed it was more about privacy, but now, glancing around, he could see the advantage of being away from the fire, being able to see out into the darkness.

“Why’d you run?” he asked.

Gil shrugged, his shoulder jostling Rowdy’s. “Thought I were better off. Thought I’d…if I went, my Pa would calm down, some. Thought I were all growed up.”

Rowdy couldn’t really imagine it. He’d enjoyed his childhood, for the main part. The town they lived in had offered plenty of opportunity to get into trouble with his friends, run riot around the streets.

It had never crossed his mind to leave until he got older, realised there was so much more to see. More to do.

But his first instinct on being released from the prison camp, where he’d wasted years of his life, was to go straight back home. Where he felt like he belonged. Home and safety and love.

“You went back, then?” he asked.

Gil gave a huff of a laugh and smiled, then shook his head. “My Pa beat me black an’ blue, for worrying my Ma.”

Rowdy shook his head too, for a different reason.

Gil had told him, haltingly, in stages, of the night his father had been so drunk, so angry and out of control, that he’d beaten Gil’s mother to death.

How he, at just eight years old, had been left alone with her body, whilst his father went to drown his sorrows in the nearest town.

How in the cold light of day, his father had returned, and almost killed Gil, too.

Another man Rowdy had never met, but hated all the same.

“Think he had a family?” Gil asked, pulling a cheroot from his pocket and lighting it.

Rowdy stared into the fire. It took him a moment to realise Gil must be referring to Baxter.

“Who cares? They’re better off without him.”

“Might’ve had…kids,” Gil continued. “They…” Then he stopped, shaking his head, blowing smoke upward where it was consumed by the darkness.

“Sure didn’t act like he did,” Rowdy answered.

Gil’s hand found its way onto his waist, holding him closer. “Wouldn’t be their fault, way he was.”

Rowdy slid his hand over Gil’s thigh, fingers tracing the seam on the inside of his jeans.

“They’re still better off without him. ‘Specially if…he…Sullivan’s just a kid himself.”

Gil nodded, slowly, offering him the glowing cheroot.

Rowdy took it, pulling a shallow drag into his lungs, then handed it back.

“Don’t mean…they shouldn’t know. That he’s dead, I mean. Not…not the rest,” Gil said.

In the silence that stretched Rowdy shifted slightly, slouching down, his head almost on Gil’s shoulder. Thinking about his own past. He felt Gil’s fingers tighten on his side almost imperceptibly as he moved. Then a thumb began stroking gently over his back.

“Folk who…took me in, after my…Ma and Pa…” Gil began, hesitantly. “They was good people. Kind. Real God-fearin’, too.”

Rowdy nodded, his cheek rubbing over the soft leather of Gil’s vest.

“Was them taught me to read, an’ write. Felt like I must’ve read the whole Bible, I reckon.”

“Always wondered how come you can read so well,” Rowdy murmured. “I mean, for a cowpoke.”

“They taught me all that.” Gil continued, voice soft, as if he was lost in memories. “An’…taught me men like my Pa, men like him was…evil. Had the devil in ‘em. Told me he’d be in Hell. An’ if I didn’t…get to church, get on my knees every night, told me the evil’d be in me, too. Guess I was real scared, scared to even…think of him. Scared to mourn for him. Scared they’d know, if I did.”

Rowdy blew a huff of breath from his nose. He’d stopped believing those stories when he’d been a prisoner. Felt like he’d seen right into Hell without doing anything to deserve it.

But he could see how, when he was a child, Gil had learnt to hide away all his feelings, for fear of being found out. Bury them down, so not even the Almighty could get to them.

“I…saw him hang,” Gil continued, then shook his head, jostling Rowdy slightly. “Right in Main Street, outside the blacksmith’s. Whole town come out, so it seemed.”

“You watched?” Rowdy twisted so he could almost look up at Gil. “Why? You want to see…justice?” He really wanted to ask if Gil had wanted to see his Pa suffer, for what he’d done. But somehow he knew it wasn’t the right thing to say.

Gil shook his head slowly, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth, away from Rowdy.

“Don’t rightly know what I wanted. Thought…there might be…something,” Gil crushed the cheroot out on the ground, the glow fading in the dust, obliterated. “He didn’t even look at me.”

“‘M sorry,” Rowdy rested his cheek back onto the cool, soft leather of Gil’s shoulder.

He felt a soft kiss pressed into his head, lips resting there, warm breath ruffling his hair.

“Least I knew,” Gil said, voice slightly muffled, movement tickling. Gil’s arm hitched up, tightening around him once more. “If he had family - wife, kids…they deserve to know he’s dead. They don’t need to know what he done to end up that way.”

Rowdy took a deep breath.

“My Pa…” he took another breath, pausing, but felt like he wanted to carry on. Wanted to share something, after Gil had told him so much. “He…ain’t dead.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t a question. Just an invitation to keep talking.

“I…tell people he is. But he ain’t. Or…he weren’t. When…he left us.” Rowdy wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “He left. Me and Ma. And…It’s just easier, to tell people…”

Another kiss was pressed into his hair. “Easier to tell people, maybe. But not easier to live with, I’m betting,” Gil said, gently.

“Whole town…knew. Ma would tell folk he was off looking for work but…they knew. Just like…she always said he’d be back, an’ I knew…”

Gil’s hand moved from his waist, up to his shoulder, pulling him even closer.

He slid his own hand from Gil’s thigh to the slight softness of his waist, the steady beat of Gil’s heart strong in his ear, the only sound as he was lost in memories. Steady, reliable, reassuring.

“I hated him,” he finally said, quietly. “An’ I missed him, real, real bad.” He felt his breath shuddering in his chest.

The fire was dying, and Rowdy knew he should get up, make some food, get it going again. But he didn’t want to move.

He couldn’t help but remember sitting in nearly the same spot, on his bedroll, days earlier. Ears and eyes straining for a sign of Gil’s return. Others had slept, settled. But as the night had grown ever deeper and more lonely around him he couldn’t help but imagine that this was it. This was his future. Alone bossing the herd. Alone bossing the men. And alone in the long nights, too.

“I thought you were dead,” he finally admitted, and even saying it out loud made it too real. Made him physically hurt deep in his chest. “I thought…when we saw you…”

“Thought…maybe I’d end up that way, too,” Gil answered, slowly. “When it were dark, and...I couldn’t get up. Couldn’t...do anything.”

Rowdy squeezed his eyes closed, as they began to sting with unshed tears. The glow of the fire blurring in his vision. He lifted his arm and wiped his cuff over his face. Then rested his hand back on Gil’s stomach, bunching up the soft fabric in his fist, holding on.

 

“Doctor said you should eat,” he eventually murmured.

“Yeah.” Gil shifted slightly, his hand sliding up into Rowdy’s hair, pushing it around, gently petting him. He pushed into the touch, enjoying the feel of fingertips rubbing over his scalp.

One of the best things - the nicest things - about their relationship, was moments like this.

Moments alone, in the dark, when they could hold and be held.

Rowdy thought back to the first few times they’d been out, alone, away from the herd. The sex had been fantastic, although it left Rowdy feeling awkwardly horny, whenever he was around Gil. 

Thoughts always straying back to the stolen nights, the slow sex under the stars, and then being wrapped together, under one blanket.

Tortured by Gil being so close on the nights they were in camp, and not being allowed to reach out and touch.

And he remembered the first time they’d been working too hard, long hours in the saddle, rough ground. They’d both just fallen into each other’s arms, then fallen asleep. Rowdy had realised then that it was about more than the sex. He’d never really thought it could be, but he found himself then, like now, just appreciating the closeness.

He shifted. “Should eat,” he repeated, and finally sat up, moving to the fire and stoking it up again with a piece of dry wood.

Using the small pan Wishbone had packed for him, Rowdy cooked off bacon, beans and a can of tomatoes into a loose sort of stew. Then roughly toasted the end of the bread, charring the edges in the flames.

As he waited for it to cook down he poured a slug of whiskey into each of their mugs, watching as Gil drank his, another cheroot held gently between his fingers, smoke tracing a delicate swirling line up into the darkness.

“If he…had…done…something to you,” he started, haltingly. “Would you tell me?”

The question was greeted by silence. He wondered if he should clarify who he meant, even though there really was only one person it could be.

“Yeah,” Gil finally said. The word no more than a grunt.

Rowdy nodded. Although he wasn’t sure whether to believe it. Because he wasn’t sure whether he’d tell the truth, if their places were reversed.

“‘Cause you could. I wouldn’t…think…”

“He buffaloed me. When we got to that old homestead. When I come to...he’d tied my hands. Was…trying to…” Gil’s voice had dropped. “I…kicked him off. He pulled the knife from his boot. So…”

Rowdy turned, watching.

“I jus’ kept kicking at him. He was slashing out, with the knife.” Gil shook his head. “Just…”

“You did what you had to.” Rowdy said, firmly.

Gil nodded.

“He was a piece of shit, and whatever happened, he would’ve ended up dead. You did what you had to.”

There was another silence. Rowdy broke it by serving up the makeshift stew, handing one shallow bowl back to Gil, the toast on the side. Then pouring more coffee out for them both.

 

They slept cuddled together. Rowdy sprawled on his front, his head on Gil’s shoulder, his arm around Gil’s waist. Gil’s fingers were hooked into the arm of Rowdy’s vest, his other hand gently on Rowdy’s wrist.

Rowdy stayed awake a while, listening to the steady beat of Gil’s heart, the even breathing.

Occasionally Gil would jump, or tense, and Rowdy would prepare to soothe him back to sleep, but he never fully woke.

The night was cold, especially at the high altitude. But with both blankets and shared warmth, it wasn’t too uncomfortable.

Rowdy woke as dawn broke, the sky a pink-purple haze, and his breath thick with mist. The fire was barely glowing. He didn’t move, trying to guess whether Gil was still asleep.

Then fingers stroked over the back of his neck, ruffling the short hair at his nape. He smiled, moving his own hand under the blanket, stroking over Gil’s slightly soft stomach.

“Should catch up with ‘em today.”

Gil’s voice was a rumble under Rowdy’s ear.

“Yeah.”

He wanted to get back, to be with the herd, their friends. But he also didn’t want this to end. He felt like they could survive like this forever. No stress, no pressure, no herd or crew. Just the two of them, and the wide open spaces.

It seemed as if Gil was in no hurry either. Rowdy wriggled onto his front, freeing Gil’s arm and trying to arrange the blanket back over himself as the cold morning air slipped in with his movements.

“You ready?”

Gil lifted his arm, and Rowdy tried not to shiver as fingers traced around his ear.

“Yeah. Guess so.”

Rowdy smiled, and Gil slid a fingertip down the crease on his cheek.

“You know, we can always…talk.”

Gil nodded. “I know.”

“And we should. I don’t want you…feelin’ alone out here.”

“Promise. I’ll try an’ be more like you.” Gil gave a small smile.

“Oh, no, that…you don’t need to be more like anyone,” Rowdy protested. “You just need to stop expecting everyone else to be like you, is all.”

He watched as Gil gave a nod, then leant in for a kiss.

He closed his eyes as lips met, long stubble rough and prickly, both of them with cold lips and noses. He slid his hand under the blankets, finding Gil’s shirt untucked, the palm of his hand meeting warm flesh.

Their movements were slow, gentle, and eventually Rowdy rested his chin on Gil’s chest, fingers still tracing over his belly.

“You’ll…be a good boss, you know, if you ever want,” Gil said, dipping his fingers below Rowdy’s collar, gently kneading the muscle of his shoulder.

Rowdy moved slightly into the touch.

“You think?”

Gil nodded. “You just need to calm down some. Not…hang so much on what folk thinks of you.”

“I…” Rowdy began to refute the statement. Then sighed. “How’d you…you never seem to care. How can you…”

“I care. I just…like I said, you gotta make your decisions. Sometimes they’ll be wrong. It ain’t easy, but…just how it goes. Can’t expect to be right every time. I ain’t perfect, never will be.”

Rowdy pushed himself back onto his elbows.

“You expect us to be right. Me to be right.”

Gil smiled. “No, I don’t. Just…make it seem that way.”

Gil’s fingers had been dislodged by his movement, but now they gravitated back to him, undoing a shirt button within their reach, exposing a little more of his chest.

“Why?” Rowdy shifted a little, as Gil traced down his breastbone.

“‘Cause I want you to be?” Gil’s expression was open. Honest. “Because there’ll be times it matters, and I want you to get it right then.”

Rowdy looked down at his blanket, picking at a loop of thread. “Why’d you get so mad, then?”

Gil sighed. He settled on his back and linked his fingers over his chest, leaving Rowdy feeling vaguely alone, now the contact was gone.

“Because then I don’t know if I was pushing you too soon. Like I said, my herd, my responsibility. You get it wrong, I still feel like it’s my fault, for…maybe expecting too much, pushing too much onto you. I’m as much mad at myself as you, most of the time.”

Rowdy shook his head. “Thought…when we first found you, thought that was it. Wouldn’t make no difference, ready or not, if you was…gone, I’d be boss.”

“So…we’ll talk,” Gil finally said. “And…ask me, if…if I ain’t talking.”

Rowdy smiled at that. “Hope you’re going to make note of this, in that book of yours.”

Gil laughed, then reached into his pocket, for the trail log and a pencil.

“Here,” the pencil scratched on one of the back pages of the book. Then Gil held it out.

‘Talk to Rowdy’, it read, in neat capital letters.

Rowdy nodded, laughing too.

 

They spotted the herd from miles back, the familiar drift of dust smudging the landscape.

Rowdy was very aware that Gil wasn’t finding the ride as easy as he should have, but they didn’t push the pace, slowly closing the distance, until they could pick out the remuda off to one side, away from the main body of the herd.

It was late in the day, and Rowdy guessed they’d be stopping soon, setting up camp. He thought Gil probably needed it. They’d paused a few times, filling their canteens in a stream and eating some jerky, but otherwise their pace had been steady.

Finally they could hear the whoops and hollers of the drag riders. Rowdy couldn’t help but smile to himself.

Another adventure. Another wrinkle in the road, but they were back, and - he hoped - the stronger for it.

He turned to see the smile on Gil’s face as he surveyed the herd. Undoubtedly taking in every detail - the health of the beeves, their location, the going and the grass. It was a different smile from the sort he got. A smile of contentment, of a man whose worries had been alleviated.

A figure on a horse was galloping in their direction, and Rowdy found himself grinning as he recognised it must be Pete.

“Boss, Rowdy,” Pete called, even before he’d skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust. “Mighty good to see you both.”

Rowdy didn’t miss the glance up and down Pete gave Gil, checking, assessing.

“Good to be back.” Gil nodded toward the herd. “Everything okay?”

Pete nodded. “Sure thing. But…well, they’ll all be glad to see you back, Boss. Ain’t been the same…you know.” He shrugged. “They’ve been worried. An’ Wish has been bitin’ folk’s heads off.”

Gil gave a small smile at that.

“Got a bed ground picked out?” he asked.

Pete nodded. “Almost there. I sent Wishbone up already. Maybe you two should head in. Must’ve covered a distance. We’ll get ‘em bedded down all right.”

There was a moment when Rowdy thought Gil would refuse, but then, with the slightest of glances in his direction, Gil nodded. “Good. We’ll do that.”

They rode up the side of the herd, giving small waves or nods of greeting as the drovers noticed them and acknowledged them. There were a few awkward stares, but they rode on.

“Herd looks fine,” Rowdy observed, wanting to get Gil talking.

“They do,” Gil gave a nod.

“Ain’t made such bad going, either,” he pushed.

“Nope.”

Rowdy sighed. This is what he’d thought might happen. Back to the herd, back to the old Gil Favor.

 

They headed up toward the parked wagons, and Wishbone walked toward them, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Boss,” he called. “Rowdy. How…” He paused to turn. “Mushy! Get their horses,” he ordered. “How you feeling?” he asked as he turned back to them.

“Fine,” Gil answered. “Rowdy done everything you said to - an’, before you go belly-achin’, I been to see the Doc in town, too.”

His awkward dismount made Wishbone shoot a look at Rowdy, who shrugged and gave a small smile in reply.

“It sure is good to have you back, Mister Favor,” Mushy said, taking the reins of his horse.

“Good to be back, Mushy,” Gil smiled.

“Come on, sit down, you still shouldn’t be on that leg so much,” Wishbone fussed. “Coffee won’t be long, neither.”

They sat on a couple of crates by the fire. Wishbone set Mushy preparing the evening meal, and headed back to them.

“So,” Wishbone spoke to Gil, but looked at Rowdy. “What did the doctor say?”

“He said there weren’t nothing he could do that you hadn’t already done.” Gil waved a hand. “An’ all that’d work now was time.”

Wishbone gave a firm nod. “Seems like a man who’s got some sense, then.”

“Yeah.” Gil paused as Wishbone poured out the coffee and handed them each a cup. “Thanks, Wish.”

“’S just coffee, same as always.” Wishbone poured himself a cup, too.

“I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the coffee,” Gil said.

Wishbone looked at him, then at Rowdy, then nodded.

A few minutes later, having checked on Mushy, Wishbone was back, something in his hands.

“Here. Sure you should be in the wagon a few days, but…I suppose you’ll be wanting these.”

Gil took the offered bundle and smiled, unfurling it to reveal his chaps. There was a new strap where they buckled up, and neat stitching had reattached or fix the other clasps which had all been cut open.

Gil nodded. “Wish, you didn’t have to…Thank you.”

“Sure I did.” Wishbone’s chin stuck out defiantly. “Wouldn’t be proper, trail boss without no chaps.”

Rowdy smiled, knowing Wishbone would’ve been working on them in every spare moment. Knowing what it would mean to Gil, to have things going back to normal as soon as possible.

 

Rowdy kept the smile on his face as drovers drifted into camp, Gil made an effort to thank them all, ask a few of them how they were.

He overheard the conversation with Quince, telling him he’d be paid for working as ramrod, whilst they’d been away, and noticed the smile it put on Quince’s face.

He hoped the discussions they’d been having had something to do with Gil’s actions.

He also noticed the yawns, and the way Gil rubbed his hand over his face.

“Tired?” he asked, softly.

Gil glanced around at him, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been, eyes wide. Then, after a short pause, nodded. “Yeah. Guess so.”

“Been a long day.” Rowdy stretched out his legs, getting his boots as close to the fire as he dared, without getting in Wishbone’s way.

“Good to be back though, ain’t it?” Gil glanced over at him.

He looked around the busy camp, and nodded. “Yeah, yeah, it is.”

 

Over dinner they caught up with Pete, although there was little to tell - the ground had been easy enough, and whilst the weather was worsening, so far it was just a cold snap, nothing more severe.

“Picked up the post, in Winfield,” Pete said, giving Rowdy a glance.

“Winfield?” Gil asked, a familiar incredulous tone in his voice. “What you doing in Winfield? It must be twenty miles up trail.”

“Well,” Pete glanced at Rowdy again. Rowdy grinned back, enjoying watching the conversation and not being the one Gil was cross-examining. “We…thought maybe you or Rowdy here might’ve sent on a message. So…I had Jim ride in, just to check, yesterday.”

Gil nodded slowly. The way that you knew you’d probably done wrong, but weren’t going to be made to suffer for it right then and there.

“Here.” Pete dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out an envelope.

Gil took it.

“Pete. You done a good job. Thank you.” He addressed the compliment somewhere around Pete’s boots, but Rowdy still smiled at it.

“Thanks, Boss,” Pete touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgment.

 

As they settled down for the night, a few fires lit around the camp, dark shadows of blankets and men dotted about, Rowdy glanced at Gil.

“You want to bed down away from the fire?” He gestured to the edge of the camp.

Gil looked around. “No. Here’s fine.”

Rowdy nodded slowly, keeping his voice low. “Ain’t afraid of what’s in the dark?”

“Not here. Not now.”

Gil sat on his bed roll, leaning back on his saddle, and lit a cheroot.

Rowdy settled on his side and threw some small stones into the fire, half aware that Gil was fiddling with something.

Then he realised it was the letter.

“Anything interesting?” he asked.

Gil held out the cheroot as he read, and Rowdy lifted it delicately from his fingers, taking a few puffs before handing it back.

“From my girls,” Gil said softly, tilting the paper to the firelight.

Rowdy nodded.

Gil finally lay down, his movements slightly awkward as he rolled onto his side, facing Rowdy.

“Sent a new picture,” he held out the small square.

Rowdy took the photograph, holding it up to see. The girls were in their best clothes, smiling at the camera.

“Getting big,” he said.

Gil nodded, reaching for the photograph back.

“What’re you doing, after the drive?” he asked.

Rowdy dragged his gaze away from the fire. “After? Goin’…to see my ma, I guess. See if anyone near home needs a hand, over winter. Line rider, or…something.”

There was a silence, and Rowdy waited, watching as Gil touched the photograph with his fingertips.

“Would you…come with me to Philadelphia? Meet the girls?” The words were soft, gentle.

Rowdy stared.

“Me? To…Philadelphia?”

Gil nodded, then looked him right in the eye.

“You were right. I been on my own too long. And not because there was no one there for me. But because them that’s there I didn’t let get close. Figure…it’s time to change that.”

Rowdy felt himself nodding. He’d never been that far east. Never to a big city like he’d heard Philadelphia was. But he supposed they were both trying new things.

Gil flicked the end of the cheroot into the fire.

“Figure I’d like to…spend time with all the people I love.”

Rowdy watched as Gil breathed out.

He felt a warmth in his chest, and reached out.

Their fingers touched, then linked.

He watched as Gil gave a long exhale. The smoke quickly clearing, drifting away into the darkness, leaving Gil. Solid. Human. There. And looking back at him with a softness in his gaze.

Rowdy knew they were going to be all right. He trusted his gut.

“Yeah,” he smiled widely. “I’ll come to Philadelphia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading/commenting :D


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